Cowboy
by wild wolf free17
Summary: Snapshots from Dean and Jessica's respective pasts. Various ages. now in chronological order. AU
1. Manna from Heaven

**Okay, so I've created this little 'verse of what I believe happened before "Supernatural" started. I've created a cast of characters interwoven with our boys that I feel the need to keep coming back to. I've also created a family for Jessica.** **Each of these stories is a slice of my Dean canon. **

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**Title**: Manna from Heaven 

**Disclaimer**: not my characters, anyone you recognize. just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica, Jessica/OMCs, Jessica/OFC

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 4000-plus

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: sorta like a fifty-sentences thing, except I ain't numberin' 'em.

**More notes**: not in chronological order.

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The first time she laid eyes on Sam, she remembered Grandmomma's stories about manna from Heaven. 

The summer she was eighteen, in-between graduation and Stanford, Jessica worked for an old widow named Delores Smith, helping with the horses—"You're the third person that devil's ever let on," the woman said of the big black called Griffin.

Their first date, Sam fumbled his compliment of her outfit; she laughed it off and bought him a drink.

Jessica named her cat after the gypsy woman from _The_ _Hunchback of Notre Dame_; when Mom asked her why, the answer was, "She's so graceful."

When she was seven, Greg committed suicide—Daddy always told her it wasn't her fault, but she knew that if she'd been a better little sister, he would have been fine.

Her favorite Disney princess was always Ariel: the mermaid knew what she wanted, and did whatever she could to get it.

Jessica's baking left much to be desired, but Sam always ate every cookie and told her he'd never had better; the first time _he_ baked, Jessica swore a bluestreak, because his left hers in the dust.

Before her first time with Sam, the greatest joy and freedom Jess had ever known was galloping across Ms. Smith's property on Griffin.

"You're a natural touch," Ms. Smith said, giving Jessica a glass of lemonade. "People are either born for horses, or they're not."

Monica, Jess' first best friend, left her for Frida, the new girl, in seventh grade; Jessica never did get over the painful betrayal, and sometimes, she still expects to be left behind.

Their second date, Jessica cooks Sam Salisbury Steak and mashed potatoes, ends up burning the meat, and finally takes him out to a nearby hole-in-the-wall restaurant, complaining about her last boyfriend, who accidentally hit her once and then got himself run over by her daddy.

When she told him her birthday, Sam chuckled almost sadly and said, "That's the same as my brother."

Fifteen years old, Jessica runs away—she's back the next morning, tired and lonely, letting her mother hold her close and sob into her hair.

"So pretty," Jacob said, gripping her wrist hard. "No way I'm letting you go."

She picks Stanford because it's where Greg had once said he'd want to go to college.

Jessica'd wanted to write for as long as she could remember; she used to curl up with Nate under the covers and weave long, involved stories of the two princes and the princess, who saved the kingdom from evil wizards and rode dragons through the sky.

She was four when they brought Nate home from the hospital, and she looked at him with wide eyes then turned to Greg, demanding, "Did I look like that?"

Only noticing him because he was taller than her, once Jessica met his cat-green eyes, she couldn't look away.

Waking up alone in bed wasn't a new thing, but the hushed conversation coming from the other room was.

Sometimes, Jessica nearly worried that Sam saw someone else when he looked at her.

Their third date, Jessica ranted about stodgy old professors who didn't know history from myth and glared at Sam when he laughed.

Every now and then, Jessica visits the Pacific, sits on the beach, breathes in the salt air, and imagines riding Griffin again, imagines brushing Pinto, offering Melon some treats—just inhaling their horse-scent.

The first time she brought home a kitten, Daddy shook his head and muttered, "Not you too."

Jessica never did learn much about Sam's family, but figured she had plenty of time.

Benny, her best friend at Stanford, flung her soaking wet hair around, and demanded Jessica just go up and ask the tall guy out, already.

On her twentieth birthday, Nate surprises her with a small horse figurine, a black that he says is the closest he could come to that devil she described.

Jessica's favorite weather was slightly overcast with a light breeze; Nate liked cloudless with lots of sun; if she recalled correctly, Greg loved snow.

Jasper, Daddy's black lab/border collie mix, always loved Jessica best.

Mom tried passing on her recipes to Jessica, but she just never was that good at cooking; give her a prompt, though, and she could write a notebook full in less than an hour.

"Oh, _c'mon_, Katie—you can't really believe 'Romeo and Juliet' is _that_ good of a love story! They both _die_ in the end!" Jessica exclaimed in the middle of the lunch room one day; Katie replied that _clearly_ Jessica just wasn't a romantic.

Sam agrees with her that Shakespeare is overrated and she starts thinking about forever.

She calls Nate up the night after Jacob hits her and sobs that she just wants Greg back.

Bobby was her first, in his bedroom while his parents watched TV downstairs, and it was rushed and not all that fun, and she regretted it from the moment he thrust in.

Five minutes after Jessica breaks her mother's favorite vase—a wedding present—she enters the kitchen bawling, asking if Momma'll love her no matter what.

Daddy always called her his darling.

Jessica's first kiss happened on the playground, in-between pushing Jonathan down into the dirt and being put in time out for the rest of recess.

The earliest thing Jessica remembers is Greg sitting next to her on the couch, her pressed up against his side, them flipping through a picture dictionary of horses.

In eighth grade, she almost got expelled for calling a teacher a bastard to his face; in the end, though, he got fired and sent to prison for raping Cynthia and Jessica felt only rage that no one had spoken up sooner.

Grandmomma always told the best stories; she'd curl up with Jess in Grandpapa's chair and weave tales of sorcerers and dragons and princesses who went out and got things done, telling Jessica that it was alright to be what she wanted, not some damsel in distress.

Ms. Smith hires Jessica on the spot after Jessica tells her off for letting Griffin run himself into the fence and injure his leg, even though they both know the old woman couldn't have done a damn thing about the fool horse not stopping.

Jessica brought home on art project in first grade that Greg told her was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen; looking at it years later, she shakes her head, thinking she's never seen anything so ugly, but she loves her brother more than ever.

Momma found Greg's body and in her nightmares, Jessica still hears the scream.

In Bible school, Jessica learns about Job and everything he had to suffer; that night, she asks Daddy why God had to test Job so hard—_couldn't He've just looked into Job's heart and known?—_but Daddy didn't have an answer, and told her not to question God's will.

Yolanda, Nate's first girlfriend, rubbed Jessica wrong from the start; two weeks later, she caught the bitch making out with the quarterback and kicked her ass.

Jessica's first poem was two days after Greg died; she still can't reread it, because she sobs too hard to see the paper.

When she was nine, Jessica fell out of a tree, breaking her left leg in two places and one of her ribs; what she told no one(until Sam) was that she'd jumped on purpose because she wanted to see Greg again.

Jessica was sixteen the summer she experimented with Georgina, a girl from down the street—at the start of junior year, she decided she liked boys more, no matter how nice George could make her feel.

Between graduation and Stanford, Jessica traveled from her small town in northern Maine to Palo Alto, unable to stop moving until she saw the big black running through a field in eastern Kentucky; even then, though, she didn't stop for long, only a few weeks.

Their fourth date, they missed their reservations and ended up at McDonald's; Jessica's ketchup packet sprayed all over Sam, and Jessica nearly passed out from the laughter.

Mom and Dad's twentieth-fifth anniversary, Jessica gave them a homemade movie, featuring pictures of her and her brothers, and Mom sobbed in Dad's arms, while Dad himself wept, and they both thanked her so much their words overlapped.

_(Jessica never saw her parents twenty-sixth anniversary.)_

By the time she was twelve, Jessica and Nate had agreed to disagree on who was cooler: she thought Batman kicked ass, but Nate worshiped that wimp Superman.

Nate and Dad never understood, but Mom and Jessica would curl up on the couch together and watch horror flicks, laughing their way through each movie.

Jessica's least favorite Bible story was always the Twelve Plagues because she felt God was _totally_ unfair to the Egyptians.

The day Jessica brought home a snake(she'd escaped from the neighbors) Daddy hung his head and sighed.

"Grandmomma," Jess begs, "tell me about Snow White fighting the wicked witch."

In fifth grade, Jessica got written up because she refused to get on the bus to the zoo, even though she'd brought home the permission slip and said nothing before; "I just can't stand seeing them in cages," she sobbed in the office, nestled between her parents, and they took her home, tucked her into bed—the next day, she was diagnosed with the flu. (She still had to take the detention, though.)

Jessica's guilty pleasure, which she would be completely _mortified_ about if anyone ever discovers, is watching the old "Superman" cartoons over and over and over again, even if Lois Lane is a helpless fool.

Her first cat, Mushroom, got hit by a car on Jessica's tenth birthday; she didn't leave her room for a week, even for school.

When Jessica was five months old, the family(Momma, Daddy, Greg, Grandmomma, and Grandpapa) took a trip to Alabama and spent a week at the beach, by the warm water; the pictures still decorated the house when she left for Stanford—Daddy walking her along the shoreline for the first time.

After Greg, Nate was the only one allowed to call her _Jessie_.

If asked what power Jessica would want out of any, she'd say the ability to heal.

Even as a little girl, she knew no one lived forever—Greg taught her that.

It was their fifth date before Sam made a move; for one awful moment, she thought he was like every other guy, but then he kissed her like she was something precious, and she fell even further.

In ninth grade, Jessica grew like a weed, finally stopping just under six feet; she felt gangly and awkward—until Sam towered over even her and held her like a China doll.

Jessica's favorite book growing up was _The Awakening_(which she had no business reading so young)—she tried explaining it to Nate one summer day, but he just shook his head and went back to reading the _Star Wars_ trilogy.

Sam told her his favorite novel had been _Shane_ ever since his big brother read it to him in the back of their father's Impala as they drove from Seattle to Cheyenne.

Bobby wooed her with roses; after she gave in to him in his room, she hated that flower so much the scent of it made her ill.

Jessica's least favorite sport was basketball, but she loved going to baseball games with Sam.

When Nate was fifteen, the brat shot up to six three and never let her hear the end of it.

She was twelve the spring she had the Greek gods phase; she decided Ares was the coolest guy ever and she'd be Artemis when she grew up.

The same year Jessica experimented with George, she dyed her hair black, pierced her ears, nose, and eyebrow, and had a screaming match with her mom about going to college one day; she apologized a few hours later, took out the nose and eyebrow rings, and washed out the dye.

A week after she went to work for Ms. Smith, Pinto bit the crap out of Jessica's right arm; she smacked the Paint on the shoulder and cursed a bluestreak, dealt with the wound, and went right back to picking the ungrateful mare's hooves.

A few months after Greg died, Daddy brought home a Malamute puppy; he told Jess to name her and Jessica picked out _Isis_.

Sam never said much about his family, but Jessica talked enough for both of them; on their sixth date the entire story about Greg spilled out, and she ended up sobbing in Sam's arms in the middle of the restaurant.

Her birthstone is garnet, but Jessica's favorite color is amethyst and she has a ring hidden away that Greg gave her—even though she was too young for such jewelry—that she pulls out and looks at sometimes.

Sam never brings her roses, always sunflowers or violets.

Jessica makes Sam promise to take her to Louisiana for their third anniversary, so she can finally sample proper seafood with actual spices.

When she told Sam her favorite book was _The Awakening_, he bought her a collection of Kate Chopin short stories.

Their seventh date, Sam cooks her Chicken Marsala and she tells him she's never letting him go.

Nate stops by a month into her first semester at Stanford, tells her he's run away and she can't make him go back; she's terrified because her _baby brother_ just traveled across the country _by himself_, and she flies back with him, holding his hand the whole way.

In kindergarten, Jessica resists learning to read as long as possible; by ninth grade, she hates to stop.

Sam's fluent in six languages, three of them dead; Jessica can speak Spanish(Grandpapa), muddle her way through German(Grandmomma), and talk a smidge of French( Georgina).

Jessica's easiest class has always been English, and she hates Calculus with a passion, but Dad made her take it and she passed with a high D.

On their eighth date, Sam confesses he's always had a crush on Demeter, but his brother prefers Artemis.

When she was six, Jess told Momma she wanted to be Loki for Halloween; Greg—even though he was twelve—went as Odin and Momma dressed little Nate up as Fenrir.

After Monica abandoned her, Jessica confronted the bitch in the bathroom and slapped her across the face.

Jessica's senior quote, Momma said, was a bit pessimistic: _This, too, shall pass_.

Nate was fifteen when he got caught shoplifting; after Mom and Dad took away all of his privileges, he called Jessica and she blistered his ear for the better part of an hour.

The first time Jessica saw Sam angry, it was after a phone call from someone he never named, but she heard him yell, "_Why do you let him treat you like that_?"

When they read "Macbeth" in high school, Jessica admitted that Shakespeare had some good one-liners, even if on the whole he annoyed her.

Six years in a row, Jessica only asked for notebooks and pens at Christmas.

Momma washes Jessica's mouth out with soap after she yells cuss words on the playground because Johnny Martin said something about Greg.

Daddy builds houses and Momma teaches art, and Jess feels pride every night at dinner because her parents work hard.

A few weeks after they moved in together, Sam walked in on Jessica curled up on their bed, clutching her amethyst ring close and sobbing; he didn't ask any questions, just wrapped around her and kissed her hair.

"Jessie," Greg whispers the night before he kills himself with Fred-from-down-street's gun, crawling into bed with her and hugging her close, "remember I love you, no matter what."

When Sam showed her the one picture he had of his parents, she noticed that his mother looked an awful lot like her; she never mentioned it.

Their ninth date, Jessica takes Sam to the Pacific and he laughs as he plunges into the ocean, calling over the roar that it's the first time.

If Jessica's scared of one thing before turning twelve and learning that there are some really nasty folk out in the real world, it's that she'll never see Greg again.

_(They never tell her, but Momma almost died as she was born.)_

Grandmomma whispers, that horrible night after Greg was lowered into the ground—gone _forever_—, that Greg's in Heaven now, he doesn't hurt anymore, and she should let him go so that he can fly above the clouds with the angels.

Jessica's dream, from the moment Grandmomma let her sit on Gwaihir(the roan gelding almost as old as Momma), was to have her own horse one day.

It's funny, but her whole life, Jessica has never feared fire.

Sam thought she hadn't noticed, but Zack told her he'd been looking for rings; she hoped he knew she didn't like gold.

Their tenth date, Sam rented _Rebecca_ and they watched it in her dorm; their eleventh, Jessica dug _Rebecca_ out of her closet, where it'd been stashed when she first moved in, and made him read her ten chapters—his was the best voice she'd ever heard, even better than Dad and Grandpapa's.

A few weeks after she met Sam, Jessica borrowed _Shane_ from the library and read it in one sitting; the next day, she ordered it off the internet, and then got an extra copy for Nate.

Momma discovered Jessica was allergic to strawberries when she was five and they were visiting family in Georgia; her allergy to latex waited till she was fourteen and in the hospital with appendicitis to rear its blasted head.

Jessica never did figure out why Greg put that bullet in his brain; Nate can't even remember their big brother.

_(Momma never mentions the letter spotted with Greg's brain matter and blood, the letter that says life's too hard and he has to escape, and to tell Jessie and Nathan he loves them more than anything and he's so so sorry—she doesn't think it'd help.) _

When she's nine, two weeks after the cast comes off her leg, Jessica announces to her parents that she's going to become a shark tamer.

Jessica decided, that first time she ever had a crush on a boy and found out where babies came from, that her son would be named Gregory Benjamin; when she moved in with Sam and started thinking about forever, she rectified that to Samuel Gregory.

Once she settled on Stanford and got accepted, she realized she had to say goodbye to Isis and Jasper and Mushroom's grave and Lucky the King Parakeet and Seth, Isis' son, and Esmeralda—and Momma and Daddy and Nate and Grandmomma and Grandpapa… and Greg.

Daddy fell off a roof in May, two weeks before Nate's ninth birthday; it was a miracle he survived and walked again, and Jessica's faith in God was almost restored—almost.

Jessica gave up on magic the day her brother died, though she still wove stories for Nate.

She's taking a shower when the curtain is pulled aside and the dark man with golden eyes grabs her neck, covering her mouth before she can scream.

Sometimes, Jess can't remember Greg's voice, and that lack _hurts_.

From when she was twelve to when she left for Stanford, Jessica took tae kwon do lessons every week.

In the end, it doesn't hurt, and she thanks God for that, though she hasn't believed in years.

The first time she lays eyes on Dean Winchester, she can't breathe because he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen; when he speaks, though, she immediately kicks herself back into gear, and thinks—just for a moment—that he's purposefully making himself distasteful.

The day after her first date with Sam, Benny laughs as she gushes and says, "Aren't you glad you listened to me?"

A week before she meets Sam, Jess calls George, just to talk, and they spend three hours on the phone.

On their twelfth date, Jessica ends it early because she's got to study for a major final; Sam offers to help, if she wants, and they end up discussing horrible '60's movies.

The second time she saw Sam mad, they were walking home from their fifth date and came upon four guys fighting one; Sam jumped in and ended it with a few well-placed punches, and explained it away as hating bullies.

Jessica's first word was _Grey_, because she couldn't quite manage the second G.

Frankie, Jess' very first boyfriend ever(if preschool counts) asked her to marry him just after snack and before nap; she said yes.

If Jessica could pick any form besides human, she'd become a Luna moth, though even she can't say why.

The first major argument Jess had with Greg, she was three—according to the story—and accidentally hit him in the head with a football.

Frida, that bitch who stole Monica, ended up pregnant in the middle of junior year and dropped out of school; last Jessica heard of her, she was well on the way to drowning herself in a bottle.

On a ninth grade history test, one of the questions was about a battle cry during the American Revolution; Jessica'd had a pretty shitty day and wrote "Remember the Alamo."

On their thirteenth date, Jess gets blindingly drunk(first time in her life) and Sam carries her home, tucks her into bed, kisses her forehead, does the dishes, straightens the living room, and locks the door behind him as he leaves.

When Sam invites Jessica to move in with him, they've been going out for five months and she says she'll think about it.

Besides his height and eyes, the first thing Jess notices about Sam is his hair: it just looks so _soft_.

For her eighth birthday, Jessica locked herself in her room and refused to come out until Momma and Daddy made Greg come home; finally, Nate sobbing outside her door had her opening it and pulling him into her arms.

Grandpapa promised to buy her a mustang for her twenty-fifth birthday; Nate said she should hold out for an Aston Martin and she whacked him upside the head, laughing that he'd never understood.

Her second semester at Stanford(about a month before she met Sam), Nick Helton tried forcing himself on her at a party and she broke his jaw, dislocated his shoulder, and kicked him in the balls.

When she was ten, Jessica's parents took her and Nate to Florida for a week; Nate got stung by a stingray and Jess swam with dolphins.

_(Jessica never learns that Sam was never really hers.) _

The only movie she ever walked out of was _Titanic_; apparently, Katie was right: she's just not a romantic.

When she was a little girl—couldn't have been more than three—Daddy pulled her onto his lap and pointed out the different constellations, telling her that if she wanted, she could walk in the sky.

Horace, her third boyfriend, took her to a gypsy when they traveled to the coast; the woman was bundled in shawls, older than the hills, and told her to beware of fire.

On the tenth anniversary of Greg's death, Grandmomma hugged Jess close and told her to always cling tight to hope, because one day the pain would lessen; despite it being Grandmomma, Jessica didn't believe.

Nate called her up a few days after he received _Shane_ in the mail and thanked her, saying he'd have never found the book otherwise and it is _awesome_.

Almost a year after they moved in together, Jessica threw a dictionary at Sam's head; he ducked to the side, eyes wide, and then gathered her in his arms as she sobbed that Greg had been gone for too long.

Their fourteenth date, Jessica curled up in Sam's lap and made him read her _Shane_ aloud, cover to cover.

Her final thought is, _Now Nate'll be an only child_.

Jessica helped Greg sell home-made clam chowder the December she was four, when Nate was only weeks old; thinking back later, the stuff tasted like crap, but they still made a killing.

She only ever wanted to tell stories, to make someone smile—then she met Sam, and thought she'd found the one, and she loved it when he grinned big enough to light up the world.

It was their fifteenth date, three months into their relationship, when Jessica finally decided to seduce him, and he was gentler than she'd ever dreamed; it wasn't till they moved in together that she learned what he could _really_ be like, and she never once regretted it.

She doesn't tell him goodbye, just watches him walk out the door with his brother, and almost thinks he'll never come back.

Greg told her, and she believed him for the longest time, that everyone is royalty and deserves the best the world has to offer; sometimes, she thought that was why amethyst became her favorite color.

Jessica was born in January, Greg in February, and Nate in October.

Jessica preferred Han to Luke until _Jedi_, when he turned kick-ass; she felt sorry for the Rancor, though.

Three months after Greg died, Jessica crawled into bed with Nate and hugged him close, swearing to always be there for him, no matter what.

She was thirteen the March she decided to learn knives, though she gave up after a few weeks.

Midway through Saturday(when Sam's been gone for hours), Jessica finds herself pacing through their apartment, wondering if she was a replacement for his mother or his brother.

Sam told her his mom died when he was a baby and his father never did get over it.

Benny demands _every single detail_ and Jess just giggles.

Jessica loves the ocean, but she adores the mountains; their first anniversary, Sam takes her on a hiking trip through a few foothills of the Rockies.

There's so much Sam didn't tell her, and the man with golden eyes laughs and laughs.

She dreams of Greg, sometimes; often, she wonders how tall he would have been.

It isn't until her third day on the road to Stanford that Jessica realizes she left Sade, her stuffed panther, at home.

Jessica gets her period on the first of every month, just like clockwork; eventually, Sam catches on and makes sure there are cookies to offer her by the twenty-eighth/ninth, the thirtieth, or the thirty-first, respectively.

There was a joke Greg used to tell: what's green and makes holes? Mom tells it every year on his birthday and sobs when she answers herself: a drill pickle.

A week after she turned twelve, a man tried shoving her into his van, and she screamed and screamed, and he slapped her across the face and got into his van and drove away, and Jessica didn't stop trembling and shuddering until Momma wrapped her in her arms and they got word from the cops that the man fought a brick column and lost.

A week after she almost got kidnapped, Jessica started tae kwon do lessons.

She watches as Sam and his brother have a conversation without talking, and she wonders if she's already lost—then she thinks back to Nate, and Greg, and knows she never had a chance.

Whenever he studied in their apartment, Sam would put on one of the classic rock CDs he'd bought and turn it up loud; he just shrugged when Jessica asked, and smiled sheepishly.

Until Sam, Jess kept her hair short, but he loved running his fingers through it, so she grew it out.

A tiny Hispanic girl plops down next to Jessica in the cafeteria one day, introduces herself as Benita("Call me Benny"), and never leaves.

Jessica wanted to ask a thousand times(more)—_where did all these scars come from, Sam? _

Ms. Smith called Jessica a horse-fool—"just like the rest of us, girl"—and said she'd give Griffin to her, but she'd already promised the devil to another.

Jessica tries to convince Sam to go riding with her, but he begs off; she takes Rebecca instead, and they chat about boys the whole time.

"I love you," Sam said for the first time right in the middle of _Shane_'s best part.

_(Momma can't stand up on her own at the funeral and Nate doesn't speak for three months, not even to Grandpapa.) _

Jessica makes Sam read _The Joy Luck Club_ and he forces on her _Changer_; they agree that Batman kicks ass and Catwoman is hot.

No matter how many times she tells Sam to guess a number, he always picks seven.

One day while Sam's out, his cell phone rings an she picks up without a second thought, says, "Hello?" and a male voice says, "Sorry, wrong number." It isn't until Dean makes a comment about the Smurfs that she realizes who it was.

September eleventh made Jessica curse; Katrina and Rita made her cry for days.

Sam told Jessica his senior quote was "Hakuna Matata" and she laughed.

"I love you," she cuts of her diatribe about foreign policy to tell him and his smile lights up the room.

She dies with smoke in her mouth and it tastes like Heaven.


	2. sinkin' like the settin' sun

**Title**: sinkin' like a settin' sun  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters, anyone you recognize. just for fun.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for up to "Heart"; underage whoring;  
**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica, Dean/OMCs, Dean/OFCs, one-sided blink-and-you-miss-it Dean/Sam, Dean/Cassie  
**Rating**: R  
**Wordcount**: 6500

**Point of view**: third  
**More notes**: not in chronological order.

* * *

Dean will never, ever tell Sam this, but sometimes he really, truly hates him, for everything that Sam is and he isn't, for everything Sam had and he didn't, for the memories Sam doesn't have and isn't haunted by, for the potential Sam has—despite everything—, potential that, for Dean, burned to ash when he was four years old. 

His first broken bone, he was eighteen months old and lost his balance while climbing out his crib.

Sam always tried getting Dean on his side of the arguments with Dad, and Dad always expected Dean to be with _him_.

Dean never forgets the look in Dad's eye after the shtriga almost gets Sammy.

Dean has nothing to compare his feelings towards Cassie to; if it's love or not, he doesn't know, but he hopes it is, so he tells her God's honest truth.

_So, me you won't kill, but her you're just gonna blow away? _Sam asked in anger, and Dean didn't reply, _Yes, because you're_ **_mine_**, though he wanted to.

_Watch out for Sammy_, Dad says, and Dean will until he can't anymore; but the second part of his order—_kill him, Dean_—Dean never could.

Everybody dies, Dean knows, because Momma did.

The summer he was sixteen, Dean was the happiest he could remember being; his whole body ached, inside and out, as he drove the Impala away from Griffin.

Dean can't understand Sam's fear of horses, no matter how often Sam explains it.

The first time a teacher tried asking if anyone hurt Dean at home, he was in sixth grade and it took him a second to catch on.

If Dean were to think about it, he'd guess his terror of planes stems from falling out of his crib so often; of course, it _actually_ stems from something he can't remember—his mother's cousin David tossed him into a tree and he wasn't able to get down until his grip failed and he fell: he was barely two.

Dad kicked Mom's cousin David's ass from one side of Lawrence to the other, though Dean has no memory of that, either.

_(He isn't even aware of it, but Dean knows how he'll die: he'll fail to save Sam and that'll be that.)_

Sometimes, Dean really _really_ wants to kick Sam's ass, but he doesn't—because of Jessica, because of his promise, because of Madison… because Sam's breaking, and something has to keep him together.

Dean's first human kill, he was nineteen; he likes to tell himself it was self-defense, but it really wasn't.

He came across Maria when she was just a little thing, couldn't be more than twelve, trying to take care of three baby brothers and survive; he set her on Pastor Jim's doorstep and checked in now and again. Last he heard—before Katrina—she'd moved down to New Orleans, keeping the boys with her.

Before Sammy, Dean was the little prince; after, he was a big brother. He's always considered it to be an even trade.

Dean's favorite class was always math because the rules never changed.

About half the time, Dean knows what Dad will say before he says it; the other half, Dad surprises him with a gentle apology or a new tape or a short vacation from the hunt, and it's those times that Dean almost thanks Sam for going to Stanford—almost. Because being an only child isn't worth the ache in his soul.

No matter how often they traveled, Sam maintained his perfect grades from one school to the next; Dean shook his head in wonder and asked Sam where the pod was.

_They don't need you_, NotDad snarled, and Dean knew it was the truth.

Every single song from 1990 onwards sucked, in Dean's estimation.

Before that fugly scarecrow, Dean loved apple pie; after, he couldn't stand the sight or smell of it.

Dean lost his virginity to an older woman named Caroline, then again to a man who called himself Kenny.

He did everything Dad ever asked of him and he never let on how much it hurt that everything was never enough.

Mommy sings lullabies and kisses his forehead and Daddy tucks him in, then he wakes to Mommy screaming and fire.

Sometimes, when Dean takes care of the guns, he thinks about how easy it'd be to put a bullet in his brain.

_I'm tired_, Dean told Sam, but it didn't nearly convey how worn out he really was.

Mommy helps Dean hold Sammy the first time, and he looks into his little brother's eyes then up at Mommy and says, "He's so _itty_."

Dean's first hunt, he was nine; his first kill, he was twelve; his first death, he was fourteen—but Dad restarted his heart and he spent a week in the hospital.

It's a little odd, considering what all he's seen, but Dean has never been afraid of dying.

He looked at Jessica standing beside Sam and knew he'd lost his little brother for good.

Dean only does it every now and then, when the money is nearly gone and using the cards too risky, and if Dad knows, he never says a thing.

In almost thirty years(_God, how'd I last this long?)_ he's spent a total of one month in jail.

He's worn so many names in his life that sometimes in his nightmares he can't remember who he is.

"Hey, kid," the woman says boredly, "you'll have ta put somethin' back." Dean looks at his groceries and tries picking out what they don't really need.

Dad's gone, too far to call, and Sammy's so sick Dean worries he might die and his little brother just wants some damned Reese's—so Dean'll get him his damned Reese's, no matter what it takes.

Mommy told him to take care of Sammy, so he climbs into Sammy's crib and molds himself to fit around his baby brother, and swears to Mommy that Sammy will _always_ be safe.

When Sam pulls that trigger four times, Dean feels a part of him die and wishes for a moment that the gun had been loaded.

Dean passed physics with a solid A and Sam grumbled when his turn came because the class made _no sense_ whatso_ever_.

In second grade, Dean met prejudice for the first time he could remember, when a few brats jumped a little black boy; Dean threw himself in with the solitary kid and never could really understand what the fight was about.

After Caroline came a steady stream of women, but every man after Kenny paid—often in twenties, but sometimes fifties, and, one time, a hundred.

Dean, in Sammy's eyes, could no do wrong; then Sammy turned thirteen, became Sam, and looked at Dean in constant disappointment.

He can remember baking cookies with Mommy and no one will _ever_ measure up.

His senior year, the counselor called him into her office and asked him what he saw in his future; he shrugged, biting back _Death, fire, blood, and guns._

"I swear to _God_, Dean," Sam yells one night while Dad's gone and Dean's fixing supper, refusing to step in on the soccer issue, "you're more of his wife than his _son_!"

Dean hits Sam for the first time after Sam snarls something about Dad being a bastard who cares more about a woman dead fifteen years than his living children.

His second hunt, Dean's slammed against a wall and four of his ribs snap like twigs; thankfully, he blacks out before the pain kicks in.

Dean was fifteen the year he decided he'd probably never see forty.

If he ever asked Sam—but he won't—Dean bet Sam would say the Impala is a replacement for a big black horse named Griffin.

Dean's favorite song, from the moment he hears it at age ten, is "Desperado" by The Eagles; he fucking _loathes_ Clint Black's remake and wishes he could erase that desecration from his memory.

He doesn't know what he did to make Missouri hate him, but after her third dig at him, he decides she can go fuck herself because he doesn't care anymore.

"You're my brother," Sam says, "and I'd die for you." _But_, Dean thinks, _you won't **stay** for me._

He's never handled being alone well, which is something Dad and Sam don't get because they flourish in solitude.

Dean hates the words _pretty_, _beautiful_, and _gorgeous_, though he despises _slut_ most of all.

"I love you, Daddy," Dean whispers into his father's neck as an empty coffin is lowered into the ground.

There're three things he hates Dad for: chasing Sammy away to Stanford, telling him that damned secret, and then trading his life for Dean's.

"Your mother loved horses," Dad says, heating a needle, and Dean clenches his teeth to hold in a scream as Dad threads it through his shoulder.

Sam and Dad are too much alike and Dean is so very tired of standing between them with every breath he takes.

Sometimes, Dean wishes he had the strength to walk away—but he's too weak.

He couldn't explain it to Sammy, but being unable to do a thing about his heart-attack? Was a relief.

"Bonnie to your Clyde," the Fed said and Dean swore Sammy _would not die_ like she did.

Dean told Sam he couldn't do it alone but it wasn't till he added, "I don't want to" that Sam agreed to come.

Sammy can't remember Daddy, only Sir and Dad; Dean tells him about Daddy, but Sammy doesn't believe.

Dean treats every woman with respect—even Missouri—because Mom expects no less and Dad taught him well.

His earliest memory, Mommy is singing in the kitchen and he's banging pots together.

He's drunk tap-water in every continental state, and Louisiana—specifically, the Baton Rouge area—has the best. Not to mention, jambalaya kicks _ass_ and sea food's a joke everywhere else.

After Katrina, Dean couldn't catch his breath until Maria got ahold of him and assured him that her and the boys were alright; he still didn't calm until he met up with them in Tucson and could see they were safe with his own eyes.

The closest Dean's ever come to loving a woman like she was Mom is a prickly widow in eastern Kentucky.

Dean's favorite teacher is a guy who teaches English and only asks that Dean do his best; he doesn't ask Dean questions, doesn't try to 'fix' him—so Dean does what he can.

Sammy loves school in a way Dean never has, and when he brings home those acceptance letters to Stanford, Harvard, Yale, Princeton—even fucking _Oxford_, for Christ's sake—Dean's not surprised in the least.

Dean could have gone to college, if he wanted—he only thought about it for a second, and he couldn't leave Dad and Sammy alone.

Dad doesn't drink that often, and never around Sammy.

Dean knows Dad's gruff because he cares and can't afford any weakness.

He's good at math and mechanics and shooting—but he's not good with people who aren't kids or aren't in danger, and he flounders whenever given an actual compliment because he just doesn't know what to do.

In the hospital for a shattered elbow—don't ask—he found his way to the kid's ward and entertained them for hours with stories about the three knights who traveled around saving people from evil wizards, wicked witches, and tyrannical kings.

Ever since Dean was fifteen he hasn't allowed himself to think about having children, no matter how much he wants some one day.

Just like he hates being alone, Dean doesn't like not having someone to take care of.

Daddy is a mechanic—_you help cars?—_and Mommy is a nurse—_you_ _help people?—_and Dean thinks he wants to be a fireman so that he can help cars _and_ people _and_ buildings, too.

Molly's nice, for a ghost, but she's caused a few deaths herself and needs to move on—so Dean feels for her, he really does, but he won't take the ghost-whisperer tack with her; he'll leave that to Sammy.

Sam's asking the impossible, but if making a promise he won't keep helps ease Sam's soul, Dean'll lie every damn day of the year.

Dean doesn't have any of his own yearbooks, though he tracked every one of Sam's down.

If he could have any ability in the world, it'd be the power to heal.

He hates horror films because they piss him off: the characters re idiotic and the writers get everything wrong.

Dean tried reading _Great Expectations_ when he had to for school and got bored to tears, though he does remember _David Copperfield_ fondly. And it pissed him off when Sydney Carton died in _Two Cities_.

He found out about the megalodon in third grade, flipping through a prehistoric creature encyclopedia while Dad researched; he became obsessed with the beast and read everything he could.

Horses have always called to him and he loves everything about them, from their noises to their smells to how they look when they run.

Once Sammy hits thirteen and becomes Sam, he starts questioning every word out of Dad's mouth, wonders—often and loudly—why Dean doesn't, and one day decides Dean is a spineless soldier with no mind of his own—and when he tells Dean this, Dean can only stare at him and wonder how the _fuck_ roly-poly little brother Sammy became such a tactless, hurtful, pissy _snot_.

Dad gave him the necklace a week after Sam left and made him swear to never take it off—_no matter what, son_—and he didn't tell Dean why.

Dean didn't graduate high-school and he never submitted a senior quote.

He doesn't have a favorite color—'cause those are for sissies—but if he _did_, it'd be golden: morning and Momma's hair.

He's lived through every weather phenomena of the continental US—his one earthquake was a 2.6—except a volcano and he _never_ wants to be anywhere _near_ an eruption.

Besides horses and megs, Dean loves tigers; one of his dreams has always been to pet one some day.

In between hunts, the summer he was eleven, Dean spent time with one of Dad's old allies, a freaky woman named Eliza; she talked his ear off about the Greek gods and he decided Artemis might be the coolest chick who ever lived, even if she was a bit cruel.

Dean knows his father's not perfect, but Dad's always done the best he could and he deserves loyalty for that, if nothing else.

He swings by Stanford at least once a month; Sam may have walked way but Dean just can't let him go.

Sometimes, while he was brushing Griffin or Melon or Pinto, he could almost see a big gray out the corner of his eye.

There was a lake on the edge of Ms. Smith's property and one day Dean took Griffin, Sam, and Dice there; he convinced Sam on Griffin in front of him and Dice bounded beside them, and for the longest time, that was best day of his life since November.

Unable to stand formulated cop shows of any kind, Dean still watches "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" whenever he can because he has a slight crush on Bobby Goren. (And hush up. You do, too.)

Dean knows the Bible backwards and forwards and thinks Delilah is a bitch for being disloyal—of course, he also thinks Samson is a fool for casting aside his wife in the first place, not to mention kind of a bastard.

One of Dean's girlfriends in high-school—they dated for six days—was a real mythology fan and she compared him to Apollo; Dean, however, since he probably knew more than she did, wasn't all that swayed by her 'compliment' and still politely broke up with her.

It only happened once when Sam was seventeen and Dad was away on a hunt and Dean hadn't been able to go because of a busted arm—Sam was spread out on the couch and Dean was doped up on painkillers and he looked at Sam and thought _gorgeous_ and he staggered over, leaned down, kissed his fucking little brother on the fucking lips—and passed out. They didn't speak of it in the morning.

_(He doesn't remember, but Death called him cute, said he was a soldier, and told him it was time to go; he believed the cute and soldier bit, but refused to leave Sammy and Dad alone.)_

One of the reasons Dean doesn't have faith in God—besides Mom dying—is how freakin' _bloodthirsty_ the Bible is.

The first man to call Dean a slut got no argument.

Ms. Salinas told him to stop being such a smart-ass and he laughed.

Dad never hit Dean except in training, but he popped Sam across the mouth once and Dean shot between them, bodily shoving them apart—he never took a side, but Sam really shouldn't have said Mom wouldn't 'a wanted this life for them, even if they all knew it was true.

If they ever decide to stop hunting, Dean thinks while picking the fancy-smancy lock to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, they'll make a killing as cat-burglars.

Maria calls Dean up just to talk sometimes, and he hears, he listens, he offers advice on how to deal with bratty kid brothers, and he tells her she deserves better than the string of bastards she dates, and if a man ever hurts her, to phone him immediately so he can teach the punk-ass bitch a lesson.

Dean doesn't much care for so called 'virtues,' but he values loyalty above all else.

He can't comprehend a world without Dad and when the doctor calls the time of death—ten forty-one AM—Dean feels like the Demon is still carving out his heart.

A ghost was haunting Harvard once and Dean sat in on some classes; he actually took a test, breezed his way through it, and walked out in under ten minutes. He's pretty sure he aced it, not sticking around to see how Luke Solo scored.

When he was twelve, Dad drove them from Seattle to Cheyenne and the only way to keep Sammy quiet was to read, so Dean pulled out his battered copy of Shane and thanked—_something_—that he didn't get carsick.

He first catches Oprah when Dad's laid up with a bad case of chicken pox—he apparently never got it as a kid and missed the immunization—and he doesn't even mean to keep watching, but she's addictive. So he doesn't seek her out, but whenever she's on, he watches for as long as he can.

Dean lies a lot, but never about the important things and rarely to people he loves—_another reason to hate Dad_, he snarls to himself after Sammy runs off without a word.

Sam doesn't really want an answer, Dean knows, when he asks about the crossroad's demon, because he knew before the question ever passed his lips.

He wishes Sam would look at him and really _see_ him not the façade he wears for the world.

Dean curls around Sammy and just wants Mommy back because his heart aches and she could make everything better—he _knows_ she could.

Sammy's first major blow-up with Dad was about soccer and Dean almost wished he'd been as defiant about baseball.

Dean's good with guns—better than good, if you want the honest truth—but Sam's excellent with knives and Dean loves it when Sam lets himself go, loses himself within the motion, and just lets himself _be_—not that Dean ever says as much with words.

He asked Sam to stay once and Sam said no, so he knows better now.

Dean has a driver's license in every state of the union, Canada, and Mexico.

Dad dragged them to church a few times over the years and Dean tuned out everything but the music and choir.

Pastor Jim did the best he could, Dean knows, but Dean just never clicked with God and never will.

He compares Ms. Smith to Mom and hopes he's not being disloyal by caring for her.

Despite what Sam thinks, the first thing Dean looks at when he meets someone is their teeth: he _hates_ dirty teeth. Why do you think his and Sam's are so well-cared for?

Dean realized he didn't prefer either gender when he was fourteen, but he was turned off men for a while the next year when he had to pay for Sam's Reese's without any money.

Words, except from Sammy and Dad, have never really affected Dean all that much, as they're the only people whose opinion he cares about.

Dad gave him The Talk when he was twelve, by telling him to care for girls as he'd want his mother treated.

Before Sam left for Stanford, Dean filled up an envelope with fifties—hustled by pool, poker, and something else—and a letter reminding him about salt and cat's eye shells, and a cell-phone.

So, Dean doesn't have much use for country, but George Strait? He's just cool. So he—and Johnny Cash—escape(s) the after-1990 music sucks rule.

Benny, Maria's second-youngest brother, called Dean in April a couple years before Sam left, begging Dean to come save Maria because her boyfriend was demanding money they didn't have. Dean headed out and was gone a week, leaving Maria with enough money to pay her way for a month. The boyfriend wound up in the hospital and—far as Dean knows—never bothered Maria again.

Dean taught himself to cook from library books; he left a fine a continent wide. He started easy, with spaghetti and Salisbury Steak, graduating to fajitas and etouffee . But Sammy's favorite, which Dean eventually taught him to make, was Chicken Marsala.

He tried pot once. He vomited for two hours straight and stayed away from drugs for the rest of his life.

For as long as he lives, Dean will never be able to forget the sight of his body choking the life out of Sammy.

Dean's eighteenth birthday, Dad gave him the Impala—_take care of her, son, and she'll take care of you._

Dean hates himself for the thoughts(_he's your **brother**, you sick_ _fuck_), so he buries them as deep as he can.

_Just leave_, Sam's green puppy-eyes beg him. _You have a chance to live_. But Dean locks them in and settles to wait until Sam changes because life without Sammy is no life at all.

Sam doesn't ask why Dean's eyes bled; Dean can't decide if he's hurt or relieved. _(It wasn't self-defense. It wasn't.)_

After Sam leaves, Dean picks a fight with Dad for the first time in ever—and, to his shock, actually wins. Of course, he ends up with two black eyes, bruised ribs, and a sprained wrist, but Dad said _uncle_ first.

Until Daniel, a guy in Sedona with forest-green eyes and shaggy dark hair, Dean hadn't enjoyed a male partner since Kenny.

He asks Sam about college on the way to Jericho and what Sam describes is an alien world.

Dean remembers dancing with Mommy in the kitchen, covered in flour, and laughing so hard his sides hurt.

He plays his music as loud as he can, trying to chase away the pain of what he's lost and what he's never had.

Dean knows what people see when they look at him: drifter, loser, danger, fuck-up—what hurts, though, is when he hears those same things in Sam's bearing, because Sam just isn't looking deep enough.

One of Dean's greatest, most enduring fears is that Sam will find out what he's done, look at him with disgust, call him a whore, and then walk away for good.

He likes Ellen, he _really_ does, but she has _no_ call butting into their life and demanding Sam's secrets.

Sometimes, if he has the time, Dean sits on a bench near a park and watches the children play, wishing…

Sam doesn't know, but Dean actually rarely goes home with the women he chats up; it's just harmless flirting and he never promises them anything he won't deliver.

Until Madison, until Glen, Dean had never considered the human inside the werewolf.

Gordon had a few good points, but he lost Dean the instant he directed that blade towards Sam.

If he didn't become a cat burglar, Dean figured he could become an actor.

Sam laughed at him, but Dean remembered that hole-in-the-wall hotel room where half a dozen rats bit the crap out of his leg and he had to get a rabies shot.

_(The Reaper approached him in the dirt parking-lot and was impressed that the young man did not attempt to run.)_

Dean can use both hands equally well, though he hides that fact from authority—any advantage and all that.

Sam tried apologizing after Roosevelt, but Dean didn't want to hear it because he knew Sam wasn't sorry.

He called up Kathleen a year to the day she let them go and she asked if he had done everything the FBI claimed; Dean said _no, not everything_, and her silence spoke volumes.

Mr. Friedman pulls Dean aside during lunch and tells him that he can go far if he wants, but he'll have to focus on school.

The cashier clenches his fist in Dean's hair and calls him a pretty slut.

Dean's first tornado scared the shit out of him and he clung to Sammy and Dad as hard as he could.

Caroline held him after and told him to never let the world harden him because he was absolutely wonderful the way he was.

He never looked at Maria as anything but a sister, and _never_ the way he sometimes let himself look at Sam.

Jessica had a part of Sam that Dean never did, and he thinks he might hate her for that. Just a little.

Dean will never let himself go to prison for the 'shifters' victims—and there isn't a jail yet that can hold him for long, anyway.

He stops in at Ms. Smith's farm early in '05 and learns that she died the year before.

Agent Hendrickson tells him that he'll end up on death-row and Dean laughs.

Dean threw Sam at Sarah because he hoped that she was just different enough to not hurt.

He loved Mom and he loved Dad and he loved Sammy—and he had no room in his heart for anyone else.

Roy pissed him off, though he understood where the tracker came from—but he didn't want the guy killed by a wendigo.

Dean _gets_ kids, he speaks to them like he respects them, like their thoughts matter—because he does and they do.

They spent a few months in Reno when Dean was seventeen; he got in a fight and shoved the guy back—the guy's head hit the concrete and he didn't move. Dean melted into the crowd and the authorities didn't even know who to look for.

He hates dressing up fancy because the suit is just not him; but Sam slips into the role like a second skin.

Andy is a cool guy and Dean refuses to think he's a killer because he's hope for Sammy.

If the only way to save Sammy is to kill every innocent in the world—well. Not even a choice.

Dean checks around—Melon and Pinto were kept together a few towns over and Dice was adopted by a nice family, but no one knows where Griffin is.

Mommy used to tell him stories of Lune the Prince of Panthers; he repeats them to Sammy when his little brother can't sleep.

Dean will never, ever admit it to anybody, but he loves the Disney movie _Mulan_ because the chick kicks ass and saves her nation.

He gave Sam The Talk when Sam was eleven and tried to keep from laughing the whole time because Sam was beet-red and couldn't look anywhere but the floor.

NotDad leans into his space and Dean hears in his head, _Mine_.

Sam picked him up and slammed him into the wall, in his face, and for a moment Dean really believed Sam was about to kiss him.

He never learned what all the 'shifter told Sam while in his form, though he did treat the wounds; he wanted to resurrect the skin-thief just so he could kill it again.

Dean refuses to ask tricks their names and always says it doesn't matter if they request his.

His second death, he was nineteen and his heart stopped as he drowned in a haunted lake in Michigan; he was pulled from the water and resuscitated by a stranger whose name he never did learn.

He thinks Mom might be disappointed with the man he's become—and it hurts.

Jessica challenged him with her eyes, standing tall at Sam's side—_he was mine, first_, part of Dean howls. _Mine, first_.

Dad proudly spun Dean around after his first time with a gun. "Wonderful, Dean!" Dad exclaimed. "You're a natural."

He tracks Griffin to a farm in Tennessee where he watches two little girls trotting around a pen; he chuckles sadly and says softly, "Some monster you are."

He looked Mom's killer right in its' golden eyes and smirked, silently daring it to do its worst.

Jaime, Maria's youngest brother, calls Dean early in '07 and sobs that Maria's missing; he hunts down the bastard that took her and tortures her fate out of him. It nearly kills Dean to learn that Maria's dead.

One of Dean's earliest memories is Daddy taking him and Mommy to the Gulf of Mexico and splashing in the waves.

Dad's gone, Mom's still dead, and Dean needs someone—so he hurries to Stanford and Sammy, and hopes with everything in him that Sammy will agree to help him because he just can't stand being alone.

Dad taught Dean a lot of things, some he didn't intend—dying for Sam was at the top of the list.

Sam has nightmare after nightmare and Dean is helpless to stop the pain.

All Dean asks is a chance to figure things out, but Sam is their father's son and takes off on his own.

He doesn't need to whore himself so often anymore and that knowledge comes as relief.

He never felt guilt for Meg dying or that nameless guy in the alley. He's not sure what that says about him.

Dean built an EMF reader out of a dead walkman, and it was easy. He cobbled together parts from other things and constructed the reader from memory. After Sam mocked him, he wondered if Sam knew how few people could have done it.

He never asked Dad if Dad'd meant to make him good for only illegal things. Sam screamed it loud enough for them both.

Dean knows they can't outrun the demon, the FBI, _and_ the hunters, too.

_You may have to kill Sammy, Dean,_ Dad said, softly and sadly, and the world fell out from under him.

Until Dad told them to save the humans from the vampires' cages and then get out of Dodge, Dean hadn't disobeyed an order since he was ten-years-old.

A couple weeks after they leave Andrea and Lucas behind, Dean calls 'em up to see how Lucas is; he and Andrea talk for fifteen minutes, then she puts Lucas on and they talk for close to an hour.

Sometimes the clients want to hurt him; Dean lets them.

_(A week before Dean was born, a dark man with golden eyes approached Momma and offered her eternal happiness for her firstborn son; she turned him down so sweetly he gave her a reprieve for almost four years.)_

Dean takes his pleasure where he can because what he _really_ wants is so far out of reach as to be funny.

If he ever does get captured again—by someone who _knows_ who he is—Dean's willing to bet he'll never make it to trial.

He just wants a safe, nightmare free, healing sleep. But he's never gotten what he wants.

Dean wishes he'd been the one to kill Madison because the guilt and pain are eating Sammy alive.

Dean told those sick fucks in Hibbing one simple truth: if you hurt my brother, I'll kill you all.

Jo's hot—she really is—but she's not his type. Too short, for one, and too blond, for another.

Caroline kissed his forehead and asked, "Don't forget me, yeah?" giving him a large silver ring.

A week before he got Sam at Stanford, Dean was in New Orleans dealing with a sweet old grandma who was trying to summon back Katrina.

Dean is not a morning person, hasn't been since turning twelve.

Sammy thinks it's about him, but Dean fiddles with the charm around his neck and wonders.

Dean picked up the crowbar and pictured his own face as he slammed it against his car.

Sam didn't tell Dean how he died in that vision, but Dean guessed it was sudden and violent, and if Sam had waited a heartbeat more, it'd'a been impossible to stop.

"Tell me what you want," Dean said, not meeting the man's eyes.

Sam told him that he should use _To thine own self be true_ for his senior quote, but Dean was considering _Semper fi_. In the end, though, he used neither, and he didn't graduate.

He can speak six languages fluently, read three more, and muddle his way through two others.

In between Sam leaving for Stanford and Dad vanishing from Jericho, Dean helped a lady named Victoria teach ballroom dancing.

Dean never cared what people at school thought of him—and, for some reason, that made him cool.

Sam first. Everything else… after. No matter what everything else might be.

Dean sat in Mommy's lap and held Sammy, peering at him with wide eyes. "Careful, sweetie," Mommy cautioned. "He's breakable." _He's not breakable_, Dean thought. _He's mine_.

He waits around for a man to help the little girls off Griffin, untack Griffin, and loose him in the pasture; he skulks along the side and whistles. Griffin looks up and lightly canters over, butts his head against Dean's shoulder. "Hey, boy," Dean whispers. "'s'good to see you."

Mom pauses to look at him for a moment—then passes him up for Sammy, who gets two more words.

Darkness loomed on the edge of his vision and the world around him grew cold—Dad's gone, Sam's gone, and he had nothing to fight for, nothing to cling to life for—and for an instant, Dean considered letting go.

The wrinkly, pale dude in the suit touched Dean's face and it was sweet relief.

Dean just keeps surviving and he doesn't know why.

So, Sammy gets visions—that's new. And he's watching Dean like Dean's gonna freak out, like Dean's gonna run—but Dean's tougher than that and he's not leavin' Sam. Ever.

He pulled away from Stanford, letting Sam return to his normal life—and something prickled on the edges of his awareness, something dark and cold. So he spun his car around and sped back to Sam.

Rita asked him what he wanted, that night in her apartment, and he chuckled, "Nothin' you can give me, sweetheart."

Missouri pulled him aside while Sam was in the bathroom and said, "You're gonna break 'im, Dean. You're no good for 'im. Let 'im go his own way."

They can't outrun the pursuit forever. And it might be easier to vanish if they're each on their own. So after leaving Milwaukee in the rearview, Dean asks Sam if that's what he wants. Sam looks at him with wide eyes and reaches out to grip his shoulder. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Dean. Not unless you convince it's what you really want."

When Dean was little—barely four, Sammy still inside Mommy—Mommy promised to take them to Egypt one day so that Dean could ask the sphinx a riddle.

He has Metallica on loud, a stretch of empty road before him, a case waiting, and his brother sitting shotgun—life's good.

_(**John, you fool**, it thinks, host's hand tight on the Colt. **Shoulda known better**.)_

Dean can't help but wonder—where can this possibly end? Nowhere good. But he'll keep Sam safe, keep Sam alive, keep Sam out of the demon's grasp…

Dad, Dean thinks, looks at him and sees a soldier. He can't remember when Dad looked at him and saw a son.

It's a day after Jessica burns and Dean's got them a motel room. Sam's curled up on the solitary bed, sobbing like his heart's been torn out, and Dean doesn't know how to stop the pain. So he crawls up behind his brother and wraps his arms around Sam's back, and whispers, "I'm here, Sammy. I got you. I'm here." And Sam sinks into him.

Sam demands to know what Dean's thinking because he believes Dean's spinning out of control. So Dean tells him and takes no pleasure in the pain and fear on Sam's face.

Jo got herself kidnapped by a serial killing ghost and Dean—for a handspan of heartbeats—felt gratitude that it wasn't Sammy.

Four years without Sam—Dean felt empty. He knew it wasn't healthy. He just didn't care.

His third death, Dean electrocuted himself while killing a rawhide. Sam restarted his heart just long enough for the ambulance to show up.

Daddy picks Dean up, places him in the bed with worn-out Mommy and newborn Sammy, and says, "He's yours to watch out for, Dean. That's what big brothers do."

He did consider taking the crossroad's demon's deal. For the record. Barely. For a second.

"Take your brother outside, fast as you can," Daddy yells. "Now, Dean, go!" He's not big enough, really, to keep hold of Sammy without Mommy or Daddy's help, but they have to get out and Daddy's busy and Mommy's—somewhere. He almost drops Sammy on the stairs, almost slips himself, but Daddy needs him to be a big boy and do this. He gets Sammy safe and Daddy will come with Mommy, and Mommy will smooth down his hair and call him her darling, and—Sammy makes a small sound of fear and Dean promises, "It's okay, Sammy."

Gordon killed his sister. Dean's heart clenched at the thought of killing Sammy. Gordon _killed_ the monster his _baby sister _had become. And Dean _knew_ he _couldn't_.

Damn that skin-thief. A year after it's dead and Dean's still gettin' the blame for its' killings.

He'll save Sammy. He's got to. There is no other option.

A case, hunters and cops and demons on their trail, music loud, Sam grinning shotgun—all is right.

When Dean sleeps, though he'd deny it if asked, he watches a shadow kill Mommy, kill Daddy, kill him—and claim Sammy as its' own.


	3. where the cowboy rides away

**Title**: where the cowboy rides away 

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title from "The Cowboy Rides Away" by George Strait. Elessar is one of Aragorn's names in _The Lord of the Rings._

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Something Wicked" 

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Mary's parents 

**Rating**: PG 

**Wordcount**: 400  
**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean was three when John had a major accident in the garage. He spent two weeks in the hospital and Mary was with him every step of the way. Mary's parents kept Dean at their house just outside of Lawrence.

When John finally went home, Mary picked up Dean and he cried every minute of the way to their house. Mary called her parents after she finally got Dean(still sobbing and screaming) inside, and her momma explained, "He loved the horses."

Mary nodded and said, "Of course."

That weekend, she took him back to her parents. John was asleep at home and Mary climbed up on Elessar, the gray Percheron she'd known since she was seven, perched Dean in front of her.

"Must be inherited," her father called as they trotted around the pasture. "Your momma, you, your boy—all horse-fools!"

Mary laughed and lightly asked Elessar to trot faster. Dean giggled, nestling against her.

"When you get big enough to help take care of a horse," Mary whispered into his hair, "you think we should get one?"

Dean nodded emphatically, turning around to look at her with her own huge hazel eyes.

"What should we name him?" she asked, kissing his forehead.

"Greystone," Dean decided with a serious nod.

"Alright then, baby boy," Mary said, every word cemented with sincerity. "For your tenth birthday, we'll go look for a horse."

-

Dean's tenth birthday came and went in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. A witch almost drained Sammy of his life and Dad lost faith in Dean.

For some reason he couldn't really recall, Dean dreamed of horses that night, huddled with Sammy in the backseat of the Impala. He dreamed of horses and sunshine and a warmth at his back; of kind, loving laughter surrounding him; of long blond hair cascading around him. Words echoed in the dream—_we are horse people, love, always have been. It's in our blood, that desire to ride, to be near them. It's the greatest freedom we'll ever know. _In the dream, he felt a kiss pressed to his cheek, his forehead, and the words sank into his skin. _You'll have a horse of your own one day, Dean. It's in our blood._

On the way to Pastor Jim's, Dad driving like crazy, Dean pulled Sam close and dreamed of his mother, dreamed of horses, dreamed of a freedom he hadn't known since he was four years old.


	4. age of innocence

**Title**: age of innocence

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: they aren't mine, the lovelies.

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: Mary/John

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 470

**Point of view**: third

* * *

"Baby," Mary called. "Can you get me two sticks of butter?" 

She didn't watch Dean jump off the chair and scurry to the fridge; his little patter of feet told her where he was.

Mary continued pulling things from the cabinet. The cookies were to be her apology to John—the child growing inside her had made her grouchy lately, snappish and irritable. Of course, John understood; he'd survived Dean, after all.

She smirked as she thought back to the middle months with Dean. By all accounts—John, her sisters, their friends—she'd been a _monster_.

Dean depositing the sticks by her side, peering up with large eyes identical to her own hazel, recalled her to her plan. Her baby boy was delighted to help, excited to finally be able to cook. Dean'd been after her for months, pestering her, and she'd finally relented.

"You know where we keep the eggs?" she asked and he nodded emphatically. She smiled. "Two please, love."

He took off again, rushing. "Careful, Dean," she said over her shoulder. "Don't break 'em."

"I won't, Mommy," he replied. "'onest."

She measured out three-fourths a cup of brown and white sugar, and was cutting up the sticks of butter into chunks when Dean tugged on her shirt.

"Here, Momma," he said, and she gently took the egg from him. He rushed back across the kitchen and she watched him carefully pick up the other egg. He carried it to her like it was a priceless treasure, determined to keep it safe.

"When the baby comes, Dean," Mary told him, taking the second egg and laying it on the counter by the first, "you have to be just as careful with your sister or brother, alright?"

Dean met her eyes. "I know, Mommy," he said. "I promise."

She smiled down at him and his answering grin was blinding.

"You wanna add the butter?" she inquired and he answered with an excited yell. She picked him up and he tossed it in one chunk at a time, giggling as the sugar sprinkled into the air. She set him on the counter, careful of the eggs, so he could watch her stir.

She let him crack the eggs and put them in, though she did the vanilla herself. "Wanna stir?" she asked, offering the spoon, and he looked at her with wide eyes.

He took the spoon and shoved it in, slowly moving it around. She grinned, hoping to keep her little helper in the kitchen for a long while. Eventually, of course, he tired, so she swiftly completed that step, doling out the flour, baking soda, and salt.

Mary let him taste the dough before finishing it with the chips.

"It ready, Dean?"

Seriously, he nodded. She kissed his forehead and let him dump in the whole bag.


	5. above the noise and confusion

**Title**: above the noise and confusion

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Carry On, Wayward Son" by Kansas.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: G

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: 'stuffed'

**Dedication**: _stealthyone_. I asked her for a word months ago and she gave me a whole list. I promised her a drabble for each—here's the first.

* * *

"Sammy, _please_ stop crying," John pled, cradling his seven-month old son in his arms, tears of flat-out weariness prickling the corners of his eyes. He'd been awake for nearly forty-eight hours now, the baby sobbing for most of it, and nothing he did made Sammy stop. 

Dean was crouched in-between the couch and the wall, face shoved into his folded arms. He hadn't spoken a solitary word in almost a month, and John had no idea what to do to help either of his boys.

"Sammy, please," he begged again, pacing around the living room, jiggling his son. But, just like before, it didn't work. It _never_ worked, and Sammy _kept wailing_.

Dean moved at the edge of his vision, shuffled over, a teddy bear in his grip. He reached up and tugged on John's shirt, moving away. John canted his head and followed.

His firstborn hopped up on the couch, setting the bear beside him, and held out his arms. John leaned down and gently placed Sammy in Dean's grip, dropping a kiss on Dean's forehead. He sank next to Dean with a weary sigh.

Slowly, Sammy's cries tapered off and John had never been so relieved for quiet.


	6. Monsters

**Title**: Monsters  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters, Johnny, Mary, Dean, or Sammy.  
**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 880  
**Point of view**: third  
**Notes**: So, it seems to me, Dean's not prejudiced at all. I figure there's got to be a reason why.

* * *

On Dean's third day of second grade in Biloxi, Mississippi, he came home scowling. John was there to greet him, and Sammy jumped all around him, begging for attention. 

So Dean played with Sammy for a while. John watched, wondering what could possibly have happened at school, but knew that asking would have to wait until Sam was entertained elsewhere.

Eventually, Sam tired out(the fact that John had taken him to the park earlier, for _hours_, helped.) and lay down on the beat-up old couch. He was sleeping fairly quickly, but he'd be awake again before nightfall, and probably be up half the night. His infant sleeping patterns seemed to be sticking and John could only hope eventually they'd fade.

"What happened today at school, son?" John questioned, heating up some soup on the stove. Dean sat at the table, the pieces of a gun scattered in front of him. John was both saddened and pleased that Dean could reassemble it in under a minute and a half. When Dean looked up, John met his eyes. "Anything interesting, fun?"

Dean's eyes were veiled, another trick most second graders couldn't manage. "No, Dad," he answered, and looked back down at the gun.

"Dean," John said, a command.

His eldest, his little soldier, clenched his fists. "There was a fight today at school," he muttered without looking up.

"A fight," John repeated. "I wasn't called."

Dean shrugged. "The teachers didn't know about it."

"And this fight," John mused, moving the soup to another burner and turning the stove off, "You're not happy about it?"

"I don't understand it, Dad." Suddenly, Dean's voice was almost frantic, nearly scared.

John walked to the table and sat next to Dean, asked, "What don't you understand, son?"

"Vince Turner," Dean started, "called Billy Jamison something, and I think it's a bad thing, and it hurt Billy's feelings, so he jumped on Vince, but then Vince's friends got involved and Billy was fighting alone, and he was losing so—" He stopped suddenly, looked up at John.

"So you jumped in," John finished. Dean nodded. "What's your question, Dean?"

"After everybody was running off, Vince yelled something at me," Dean explained, glancing down at his hands. "And I just… I don't understand, Dad."

"Dean," John told him gently, "I can't answer if I don't know the question. I can't explain if I don't know what you're not understanding."

"I don't want to get in trouble for repeating something bad."

"Dean, I promise, you won't get in trouble."

Without looking up from the table, Dean said, "He called Billy a nigger and me a nigger-lover. It really, really bothered Billy, but I…"

"Oh," John answered, wishing he had something better to say. He remembered his own father, his brothers—they'd never minced words and they thought themselves better than everyone. But his mom—she'd been a good woman and did her best to shelter her sons from their father's teaching. She only succeeded with John. And Mary, Mary hadn't had a prejudiced bone in her body.

John moved him and the boys around so much, hunted and trained himself, and Dean, so often, he just didn't have time to teach them about the outside world and what all manner of men lived in it.

Oh, he'd explained to Dean that some grown-ups were bad, that if anyone tried to touch him while John wasn't there, tried to take him or Sam, _exactly_ what Dean should do. But he hadn't fully explained why yet, and he dreaded that day. And he was nearly ashamed of himself for knowing that Dean would do what he said without thinking. Especially if Sam was in danger.

"Dean…" he began and trailed off. He searched for how to explain, how to tell Dean that the people who didn't know what lived in the dark made monsters of their own kind, believed they walked higher, believed they were better. "Some people don't like other people because of how they look."

Dean raised his head. "But… why not?"

John shrugged. "It's the way it's always been, son. They look at skin color or eye shape or some other trait and make judgments. It isn't right and it isn't fair, but…"

Dean slid out of the chair and walked over to the stove. He picked up two bowls, ladled soup into them, and dropped them off at the table before going to the counter and getting two spoons. "So, what Vince said…?"

"Is a slur against blacks, yes."

"And what he said to me?"

"Is, too."

They silently ate their soup for a minute and John mulled over what Dean'd told him. Mary would be proud of her son, her darling boy. Very proud.

And so was John.

Finally, Dean spoke again. "I just don't understand, Dad."

"People fear the different, Dean. You know that. But they're just words. And words only have meaning, only have value, if you let them." Dean looked up again, eyes hazel and huge. In his gaze, John saw Mary and he smiled. "It doesn't make sense, Dean. I know that. But that's the way the world is."

"Will it ever _not_ be that way?"

Dean sounded so young, so hopeful. "Honestly, Dean? I don't know."

Dean nodded and went back to his soup.


	7. close to my heart, chp1

**Title**: close to my heart, never to part chp1

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: None

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dad's researching a killer ghost—never a friendly one, because Dad says they don't exist—and Sammy's looking at a picture book. Dean's bored and goes through the nearby stacks for a bit. 

He finds the section on ocean creatures and his attention is caught by a shark book. He pulls it out and flips through, glancing at the photos.

One in particular grabs him and he reads the text—a megalodon. Prehistoric and ginormous, perfect predator. Dean's hooked.

He searches the shelves close by, pulls out any shark books and carries them back to Sammy, settling next to him.


	8. close to my heart, chp2

**Title**: close to my heart, never to part chp2

**Disclaimer**: John, Mary, Dean, and Sammy aren't mine. Title from "Baby Mine" by Allison Krauss.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Something Wicked"

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1800

**Point of view**: third

* * *

"Dad!" Dean bounded over, shoving a large book under John's nose. "Lookit!" 

John pushed the book away. "I'm busy, Dean. Go back to Sammy."

"Yes're," his eleven-year-old son said, slinking back to the corner where he'd stashed Sammy. John watched him go, took in the slump of his boy's shoulders, the defeated way he moved.

It'd been a little over a year since the shtriga and John hated himself for how he'd handled that. Dean blamed himself and would for the rest of his life. It wasn't his fault, but John knew he'd never tell his son that. Because, to his lasting shame and horror, what happened in Fort Douglas would ensure Dean protected Sammy forever.

Dean settled next to Sammy and spread the large volume over both their laps. Sammy snuggled into him and looked his brother with wide, worshipful eyes. Dean smiled at him and then began reading aloud, gesturing to the book.

John returned to his research. He had to figure out who the ghost was before it struck again.

-

"Dean."

Sammy was asleep on the couch but Dean had school-books littered around the table. Dean raised his head. "Yes're?" he asked, exhausted.

"Go to bed, son. It's after eleven."

Dean yawned and his jaw cracked. John wondered if mouths were supposed to open that wide. "I have to finish this report on the sun first, sir," Dean told him, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"When's it due?" John asked, putting dishes in the sink.

"Friday." Dean yawned again.

"Dean, go to bed." John made it an order. "You still have three days to complete the assignment."

Dean slid out of the chair. "Yes, Dad."

John watched him go, placing Dean's books on a chair. Then he strode over to the couch and picked Sammy up, carrying him to the boys' bed. He settled Sammy in the middle and waited till Dean curled around him before tucking the comforter about them.

Dean was barely awake when he asked, "Daddy, do you still hate me?"

John caught his breath, something hurting in his chest. He turned in the doorway and stared at his son. "I could never hate you, Dean. _Never_."

"I almost killed Sammy. I left him alone." Dean sounded heartbroken, shattered, achingly young.

John had never loathed himself more. "I _love_ you, Dean. No matter what. You're my son." He wished he was as good with words as Mary had been. "Now, go to sleep, son."

John shut the door behind him and sat at the kitchen table for a long time.

-

Next afternoon, they were back at the library. John was close to cracking the case, he just knew it. He'd put Dean to work helping him research and given Sammy some paper to scribble on.

They'd been at it for nearly an hour when Sammy plopped a giant book next to Dean. "Read to me," he pled, pulling out a look John recognized as Mary's pout. He'd caved the instant she turned those eyes on him, and Dean was the same.

"Dad," he said, turning to John. "Can I take a break and go read with Sammy for awhile?"

John nodded. "Go ahead, son. You've done good work."

Dean hopped out of his chair, grabbing the text—some sort of encyclopedia, John noticed, the same Dean had showed him yesterday—and led Sammy over to a large chair. They scrunched in together and Dean held the book in their laps. John returned his attention to death certificates.

-

That night at supper, John asked, "Why don't you just check that book out?"

Dean answered, "I tried. It's reference material, so I can't."

Sammy butted in, "It's about sea monsters!" He bounced in his seat. "Can we buy a megdon, Dad?"

John a raised a brow and turned to Dean for clarification. "A megdon?"

Dean's eyes lit up like they hadn't since that field of horses in Arkansas. "He means 'megalodon.' A giant Great White shark, sixty feet long. They're _awesome_, Dad." He spent the next ten minutes telling John all about the sharks, Sammy adding information whenever he felt the need.

John listened in wonder. Dean so rarely showed excitement for anything anymore, and now he was _animated_. It was like watching Dean as a toddler again, exploring the house, constantly in awe of all the new things.

-

After the hunt was over and the ghost dealt with, John visited a book store. He picked out four volumes, though he didn't really have the money to afford it. A horse encyclopedia, a sea creature encyclopedia, and two children's books for Sammy.

He flirted with the cashier and she knocked five dollars off the price, though it still cost a small fortune. He swung by the school just before Dean's grade let out and he met his son by the door.

Dean's eyes widened. "Dad! Is everythin' okay?"

It bothered John that Dean's first thought was everything that could have gone wrong. "I finished work earlier than I'd expected," he explained, reaching down to ruffle Dean's hair fondly.

Dean shyly smiled up at him. "You want me to show you where I wait for Sammy?"

John nodded and followed Dean, asked him about school. He couldn't remember the last time they really talked about anything but the hunt, and that shamed him. Mary wouldn't want her boys to have just a drill sergeant. She'd want him to be a father, a _daddy_. But he didn't know how to be that man anymore.

Sammy bounded out of the building in a rush of students. He didn't notice John at first, making straight for Dean and chattering on. Dean listened seriously then turned him around and nodded to John.

"Dad!" Sammy exclaimed, bouncing up. John caught him and hugged him hard, tangled his fingers in Sammy's too-long hair. He walked toward the car, still holding his baby boy, Dean beside him.

"Let's get some ice-cream, huh?" he asked and Sammy said, "Yeah!"

"Mr. Winchester!" a female voice called from behind them. "Please, I need to talk to you!"

He paused and, as he turned, noticed that Dean blanched. "Dean?" he questioned softly. Dean didn't meet his eyes.

John lowered Sammy and faced some woman a little younger than him—barely thirty, maybe. Petite, red hair, green eyes—and glaring at him.

Interesting. He gave her a smile that he knew worked on women. She didn't soften.

"I need to speak with you, Mr. Winchester," she said again. "I'm Rachel Morris, Dean's homeroom teacher."

John glanced at Dean. He had Sammy by the hand and stared at the ground. "Dean," he said, tossing the keys when his boy looked up. Dean caught them easily and John ordered, "Take Sammy to the car."

Ms. Morris' glare intensified. "You'll let them in the car unsupervised?"

John looked at Dean, who hunched further down. "I trust Dean with Sammy," he said, and smiled at Dean as he glanced up. It was as close to an apology for Fort Douglas as he'd ever let himself get. "Run on, son. I'll be there soon."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir." He looked at the teacher. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Morris." He pulled Sammy behind him as he took off.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" John asked, hardly able to keep the challenge out of his tone.

She pursed her lips. "I saw bruises on Dean last week. This week, he walked like it hurt." Crossing her arms, she continued, "I asked him about it—he said he was clumsy."

"He's a boy, Ms. Morris," John told her. "Boys get hurt."

If anything, that added fuel to her fire. "I've asked the nurse. Dean has numerous scars that childish accidents can't explain." She raised her head. "So, tell me, Mr. Winchester—why shouldn't I call the police, get those two boys out of your care?"

John couldn't help the thrill of terror that shot through him. The thought of life without his boys, Mary's sons away where he couldn't protect them—it not only terrified him, it pissed him off.

He knew this woman thought she was helping, doing the right thing—the _only_ thing a good person could. But he still came close to hating her.

It was the first time anyone ever accused him of hurting his son. He knew it wouldn't be the last, not with their life.

"Ms. Morris," he said, softly and dangerously, "I do not abuse my son. I never have; I never will. He was running out into the street and I caught him. Then he tripped out in the yard and wrenched his leg." He stared her down and she wilted beneath his gaze. "Dean is a good boy, the best of boys—I wouldn't hurt him for the world." He didn't even try smiling. "Good day, ma'am." He turned on his heel and stalked off, checking his stride. He didn't want her to know how she'd gotten to him.

Dean was huddled with Sammy in the back, telling some story. John knocked on the driver's window and Dean reached forward to unlock the door. He refused to meet John's eyes.

"Dean," John said firmly, "look at me." Slowly, Dean did. "That wasn't your fault. She was trying to help. You aren't in trouble."

"Are you sure?" Dean asked. "If I was better—"

"Dean," John cut in. "You _can't_ be better. You're awesome as you are. I couldn't ask for a better son."

John was astonished Sammy had kept quiet for so long. "What about me?" He leaned over Dean, eyes bright. "Am I bestest, too?"

"Yeah, Sammy," John answered, sparing him a smile. "Dean, you hear me?"

"Yes're," he whispered, turning to Sammy. "Wanna know what happens next?"

John sighed as he started the Impala. Ice-cream was a _must,_ now.

-

Dean picked chocolate, Sammy wanted a sundae, and John went with plain vanilla, requesting strawberry sauce on the side. Mary had loved strawberries, insisting on them with every meal when they were in-season.

As they ate, John fetched the books. "Here ya go," he said, dividing them up.

Dean flipped through the horse encyclopedia with wide eyes, then lightly touched the ocean one.

"Yay!" Sammy cheered. "Mrs. Morgan was readin' us this'n earlier, Dad!" He shoved the book about dogs at John. "Now I'll know how it ends 'fore anybody else!"

John smiled at his enthusiasm but focused on Dean. "Hope you like 'em, son."

Dean's full smile blossomed, the smile that used to catch his breath when Mary wore it. "Thank you, Dad." He reverently turned the pages, taking in the diagrams and illustrations. He kept the melting chocolate goo away from the books and refused to let Sammy touch either until he cleaned and dried his hands.

The books, John decided, were totally worth the money.


	9. Flame, chp1

**Title**: Flame chp1

**Disclaimer**: Dean, Sam, and John aren't mine; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: OFC/Dean

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point of view**: third

* * *

He's fourteen. She's not—eighteen, he thinks. Brunette, humongous blue eyes, curvy and pale—a walking wet dream. 

He's got a crush on her but never approaches, not quite comfortable in his body yet. He's been told he's good-looking, but his confidence wanes day to day.

Her name is Caroline. She's a senior, perfect grades, perfect attendance. Out of his league; beyond his reach.

He watches for weeks: before school, during lunch, between classes, while waiting for Sammy. Studies the curve of her neck, the tone of her laughter, the way her eyes gleam when she talks with Mark Stone, her boyfriend. Watches covertly, learns her likes and dislikes, follows her the way Sammy still follows him.

He doesn't draw attention to himself, never tries to catch her eye. He hangs out by himself, doesn't try making friends. They'll only move on soon, anyway, so no use getting attached. Dad'd said it'd be six months at the most, and it's already been two.

Sammy makes friends with ease, blending in seamlessly anywhere. Dean could, if he wanted—he's just as good an actor as Sammy, better really. But he's tired of expending the effort.

So he watches, silently, and waits.


	10. Flame, chp2

**Title**: Flame  
**Disclaimer**: Dean, Sam, and John aren't mine; just for fun.  
**Warnings**: underaged sex; spoilers for up to "Folsom Prison Blues"  
**Pairings**: OFC/Dean, OMC/OFC  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Wordcount**: 2865  
**Point of view**: third

* * *

She was a senior that year, top of the class, prom queen since ninth grade. Popular with everybody, kind to all.

And tired of wearing the all-American, nice girl mask. She'd worn it since she turned twelve and Melanie ran off with Scot Davids, gone without word or warning. Melanie didn't even tell her that she was leaving, and Caroline had thought they shared everything.

Mama very nearly snapped after that, so Caroline became the perfect daughter to help her. No problems at school, of any kind. A's in everything subject, no marks on her record. Melanie had been a difficult child, so Caroline made sure she wasn't.

Then Dad ran off with Kelly Coleman from down the street, not even half a year after Melanie left. Mama swallowed a bottle of pills, and after she got out of the hospital, Uncle Mike moved in. He took care of Mom, so Caroline took care of herself, kept her nose out of trouble.

By ninth grade she was five foot six and doubted she'd ever get taller. She was never hungry, so she rarely ate. She ran a mile a day, working out her rage and pain. She wore glasses only at home, just to let her see intricate details.

Caroline wasn't happy, but had perfected her mask and no one could tell. Uncle Mike was wrapped up at work and Mom wrapped up in her soaps. Caroline went to school, ran, did homework, showered, and slept. She hung out with kids from school who called themselves her friends.

At the beginning of senior year, Mark Stone—hottest boy at school—asked her to a movie. She went and became his girlfriend. He was a nice enough guy, though dull, and a good way to pass the time.

By October, she was bored. But she didn't let on, just kept going out with him, kept kissing his thin and dry lips, kept letting him put his hands on her.

In November she noticed a boy watching her. He was cute, in a half-grown sort of way, and he'd be _beyond_ beautiful when older. He was shy, not speaking to anyone that she ever saw. Caroline asked around—he was a freshman, new, and no one knew much about him.

He was a mystery. She dropped Mark in less than a heartbeat.

-

Dean Winchester. His name rolled off her tongue with ease and she turned it over in her mind. She studied him—hazel eyes the size of planets, dark blond hair that looked softer than a chick's down, tanned skin, and the way his t-shirt's clung to him? Looked like he was in better shape than that dullard Mark.

More asking around revealed he had a little brother and no mother, just a dad who leased an apartment in the bad side of town.

Dean sat alone at lunch. He'd been at the school for a little over two months and made no friends. Caroline watched for a week before she made her move, but at lunch on Friday, she strode through the cafeteria and sat down across from him, focusing on her food.

She didn't say a thing and neither did he throughout the whole meal. When lunch ended, she went on her way with only a smile directed at him.

Monday, she did the same thing, but noticed that he had a nasty black eye and he winced whenever he shifted in his seat. "Dean, are you okay?" she asked and titled her head when he raised his gaze to meet hers.

"You know my name?" His voice was hoarse, and when he rubbed his throat, she saw marks on his neck.

"I've been watchin' you," she explained, worry building. "Are you bein' hurt at home?"

A smile flicked across his face. "No," he answered. "I got in a fight, is all."

A liar knows a lie. But she didn't call him on it, and when he asked, "Why've you been watchin' me?" she allowed him to direct the conversation.

"You seem interesting." She grinned at him.

He was shocked, she could tell. Used to being ignored, looked over, passed up. Once he'd grown, she knew he'd never have to fear that again. "Interestin'?" he repeated. "Me?"

"Yes, you," she laughed, offering him her dessert, then holding out her hand. "Caroline Tyndall."

He took her hand with wide eyes and shook. "Dean Winchester."

-

Her group of followers was shocked, but Caroline didn't care. She'd grown bored with them, anyway. Dean was an enigma, a puzzle with some pieces missing, and she could spend years fitting them together.

She offered to help him with his homework, that first Monday, but he kindly turned her down with a sweet shake of his head. "Thank you," he said. "But I have something to do after school."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she told him, watching as he walked out the school.

Vic, her 'best friend,' walked up behind her. "What are you doin', Carol?" Vic asked, in that annoying breathy tone she thought attractive.

Caroline shot her a scathing glance and went the opposite way as Dean. She ran two miles that day, burning off her bit of anger at being turned down and fear that this boy who called to her may be getting beat at home.

-

Uncle Mike cooked hamburgers. Caroline took one bite and drank three glasses of water, then showered with scalding hot water and slipped into bed. It was hours before she fell asleep and she dreamt in shades of red.

Tuesday it rained and she sat across from Dean at lunch. He greeted her with a small smile and a soft, "Hello."

She asked him how he liked the school. He gave her a safe answer and the discussion moved on, to movies. He knew about old horror flicks from the fifties and sixties, like Melanie used to, so that claimed the remainder of lunch. He was a fascinating boy, keeping her attention in a way that almost seemed effortless, unlike anyone since Mel.

When lunch ended, she didn't want to let him go. She hadn't experienced that feeling in nearly seven years, not since her big sister ran off to marry that useless fool.

-

Wednesday, she followed him after school, across the way to the elementary playground. He leaned on the fence and she settled next to him. He was about five ten, five eleven—taller than Mark. Long and lean—and she stifled a giggle. Here she was, waxing poetic like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl with a crush when she was a shoe-in for valedictorian.

"You have a little brother or sister?" Dean interrupted her train of thought, sounding dubious.

"No," she replied, with the grin Melanie used to call smartass. "But you do."

Again, she'd shocked him. She decided she adored the look on his face when that happened. "You're gonna wait with me for Sammy?"

"Unless you don't want me to, Dean." Caroline toned down the flirting.

He shrugged. "Go ahead, if you wanna. 's'free fence."

She smiled at him. "What's your schedule?"

Dean rattled off, " Wilson for Geometry, Adamson for English, Darel for PE, LeBlanc for Spanish, Reed for World History, Ellard for Art, and Knowles for Life Science."

She thought for a moment. "Okay. Wilson is a pain. You have to do _everything_ his way or he docks points. Adamson is a sweetheart—you'll probably remind her of her grandson, so expect to be embarrassed frequently. It's easy to wow her, but you seem the literary type." She kept her grin at Dean's blush to herself. "I didn't have Darel, so I can't help you there. LeBlanc is a _horrid_ teacher but a nice lady." Caroline shrugged. "Reed… well, just keep up with the text and you'll ace his class. Ellard's a good teacher; his class is fun. And Knowles is new, just like you."

Dean stared at her then looked back at the playground. "Why are you bein' nice to me?"

She bumped his shoulder gently. "Because I want to be."

The elementary got out, a river of kids flowing through the door. A boy with shaggy dark hair ran over to Dean and started chattering. Dean nodded and responded, and Caroline watched in shock as his whole body lit up, as his entire bearing brightened.

"Sammy," Dean interrupted, "this is Caroline." The boy turned his attention to her, eyes like lasers. "Caroline, this's my little brother, Sammy."

His grin nearly blinded her. "Are you Dean's girlfriend?" He drew out the last word, sing-songing it.

Dean thumped his head. "It's been nice talkin' to you, Caroline," Dean said. "But I gotta get Thing Two home now."

His smile was subdued and a blush tinted his cheeks. She watched them walk away and the hole Melanie left in her ached.

-

Thursday, Mark picked a fight with Dean and got his ass kicked. Luckily, a teacher was in sight and saw Mark throw the first punch, so all of Dean's actions were written off as self-defense.

The way he moved put Mark to shame. Hell, it put _dancers_ to shame. His entire body moved fluidly, gracefully, so much like a cat it stole her breath.

No one messed with Dean after that. And no one challenged Caroline about befriending him anymore.

-

Friday, Caroline asked Dean to come over for dinner. Uncle Mark was on a business trip and Mom probably wouldn't leave her room, so Caroline figured they'd be able to talk without getting interrupted.

She really wanted to know him. He was funny and kind and interesting, unlike anyone since Melanie.

To her shock—as he'd turned down every invitation sent his way—Dean said yes. He'd drop Sammy off at home and swing by. Caroline picked up hamburgers and sundaes, set the table fancy—she wanted to impress him, though she wasn't sure why.

_Liar_, Melanie whispered in her head. _You know_.

He showed up five minutes early, wearing a fairly dressy shirt and somewhat new jeans. Dean looked adorable and Caroline felt sure beyond doubt he'd be stunningly gorgeous when all grown up.

She greeted him with a brilliant smile and ushered him in. He looked nervous and babbled something about how she didn't have to go to so much trouble, didn't have to be so nice.

Caroline shushed him. "I wouldn't've invited you over if I didn't want to, Dean."

Dean followed her through the house with wide eyes. But she finally led him to the dining room and offered him a Coke, told him to pick a seat. He chose where Uncle Mike usually sat, with his back to the wall and facing both doors.

"I don't know what you expect of me," he admitted shyly, pouring ketchup onto his burger. He didn't meet her eyes.

"Just talk," she said. "Like at school."

He stayed silent for a moment then made a comment about _The Terminator_. And conversation flowed steadily, flitting from topic to topic with an ease that shocked her. She watched as Dean relaxed, as his body loosened.

She cleared the table with his help and told him to put the dishes in the sink. As he turned, she stepped up to him, stared into his eyes.

Caroline knew she was too old for him, knew that to push him would be to lose him. His eyes were wide and she saw the panic settling at his edges.

So she just reached up to lightly touch his cheek. "Thank you for coming to dinner, Dean."

Caroline backed up slowly, keeping his gaze, then swiftly turned, calling over her shoulder, "Follow me."

Before he'd arrived, she went through their movies, pulling out all the ones she thought he might like. She sank onto the couch and gestured to the stack of films. "Pick one."

Dean knelt and sorted through them before turning to face her, _The Day of the Triffids_ in hand. "Where the hell did you find this?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Uncle Mike brought it from Florida. Me and Mel used to watch it."

Dean licked his lips. "D'ya mind if we watch it?"

"Sure," Caroline answered. "If you want."

-

On Monday she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. He stared at her, incredulous, and she smiled.

By the end of school, everyone knew that Caroline Tyndall kissed Dean Winchester. Mark glared at them both as Caroline walked with Dean to the elementary. She almost hoped he'd try something so Dean could kick his ass again.

"Would you like to come over?" Dean asked, shyly glancing at her then away. He studied the ground.

She knew what it cost him to ask, realized how much he kept to himself. "Sure," she answered. "I'd like that."

"I need help with some Geometry problems," he lied, but she didn't call him on it.

Sam ran up, bouncing and chattering. He spared her a glance then focused on Dean, asking a question without waiting for an answer. He went on ahead, circling back to where Dean and Caroline followed.

They spoke about movies before meandering to books and history. She'd known he was smart, but wow—he could easily best her, no easy feat. He didn't flaunt his knowledge, which she liked.

Once they reached his apartment, Dean sat Sam down at the kitchen table and said, "What're the assignments today?"

Sam rattled off his homework and Dean asked, "Can I trust you to do part of it before watchin' TV?"

With a nod Sam promised. Dean turned to Caroline and asked, "Wanna go for a run?"

-

A month passed. Caroline spent all her time with Dean, except those few times he was gone. She met his father one day, a large, gruff man who frightened her, even as he treated her with respect.

The Monday after Mr. Winchester drove her home, Caroline noticed bruises on Dean's left arm. She'd almost forgotten her suspicions, but now they came back full force.

"Dean," she said, softly and seriously, "does your dad hurt you?"

He stared at her with wide eyes for a moment before his gaze flicked to the bruising. "No," he answered. "Really, Carol, he doesn't. I know what it looks like—but Dad has never beaten me."

A liar knows a lie—and Dean spoke the truth.

-

After winter break Dean was quiet, withdrawn. It took Caroline a week to badger out of him what was wrong.

"At the beginning of February, we're movin' on," Dean told her.

Her breath caught. "What?"

"You heard me." Dean's voice was sharp and biting, a tone never before directed towards her. "We're leavin'." He stormed away, then swung back to glare at her. "Why'd you have to become my friend, Caroline? Why'd you have to make me care?"

"Oh," she whispered, finally understanding. "Dean, I'm sorry."

His glare intensified and he stalked away.

-

It took until the middle of January before Dean fully forgave her. They hung out again, discussed movies and books and school. She gave him one of Melanie's favorite novels, a slim volume called _Shane_.

-

It was a Friday. The highschool had a half-day and the elementary didn't. Caroline brought Dean home with her. Uncle Mike was at work, Mom passed out in her room, and Dean would be gone soon, Caroline never seeing him again—

She kissed him in the den, pulling his head down with clammy hands. She hadn't been so nervous in a long time. He froze at first, trying to shy away, but she tightened her grip. It took a moment, but he caught on.

She led him to her bedroom and locked the door.

-

Dean and his family left on a Thursday. He told her goodbye at school and she kissed him on the lips, not caring that the whole senior class watched.

She pressed a large silver ring she'd bought at a pawnshop into his hand. "Don't forget me, yeah?" She forced back tears.

Dean's smile was soft and full. "Never," he promised and kissed her again.

-

It was early 2007 when Caroline was watching the news and a bulletin scrolled across the screen: Dean and Sam Winchester, wanted dead or alive.

Caroline's mouth dropped open and the remote fell from her grasp, clattering on the floor.

"Caroline?" Terry called from the kitchen. "You okay?"

With a dry mouth, she answered, "I'm fine."

She'd been right, back then—Dean Winchester grew up fucking _gorgeous_. He'd filled out, grown into his looks.

"Dean, what happened?" she whispered, closing her eyes, remembering him as a boy, how gentle and kind and quiet he'd been.

She clicked off the TV and hurried to the computer room, kicked Nicole out. Caroline googled Dean Winchester and couldn't believe what she found. Where was the boy she knew? What could possibly have happened to him?

One of the photos showed his right hand and the large silver ring on his finger. Caroline stared at the picture for a long time.

Then she tucked in her babies, little Miriam and Danny, relinquishing the computer back to Nicole.

Caroline curled up on the couch with Terry and asked if they could watch _The Day of the Triffids_. Terry kissed her temple and said yes.


	11. Peanut Butter, chp1

**Title**: Peanut Butter chp1

**Disclaimer**: Dean's not mine.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: pre-OMC/Dean

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

He hasn't seen anyone with lips like that since that porno Bill showed him, and he's never wanted quite so much. He watches the boy—fifteen, sixteen, no way in hell the kid's older than that—slink around the gas station, lookin' for somethin' in particular. And the kid's good, real good, but Jack has older brothers and he used to go shoplifting with 'em. 

Jack smirks when the kid pockets a pack of Reese's and meets him at the door.

The kid's eyes—damned gorgeous hazel, larger than any Jack's seen before—narrow and his fists clench.

He's beautiful and Jack wants those lips wrapped around his cock, so he says, "You do what I say and I won't call the cops."

An ugly expression twists the boy's pretty features, but he's caught. His shoulders slump and he mutters, "Fine."


	12. Peanut Butter, chp2

**Title**: Peanut Butter chp 2

**Disclaimer**: Dean, his daddy, and his brother aren't mine.

**Warnings**: underage sexual relations of a non-incestuousual nature

**Pairings**: Dean/OMC

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 190

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean got caught shoplifting at a gas station when he was fifteen. Dad was five states over hunting something that turned out to be a human psycho, and Sammy was hom—in the _hotel room_ sick with the flu. He asked for Reese's. Dean couldn't say no, even though he didn't have any money. 

He hadn't hit his growth spurt yet, and got told by numerous creepy adults he was too pretty for his own good. The cashier was a guy in his late twenties, with too many facial piercings and not enough brains, but he'd gotten a good enough look at Dean that he'd be able to make a police report if Dean kicked his ass.

So Dean didn't.

He followed Dad's lessons to the letter: did what he was told to do and he shut up about it.

Sammy enjoyed the fucking Reese's and Dean brushed his teeth seventeen times throughout the night. Dad showed up late in the afternoon the next day and Dean took off after making sure he was okay, not returning until after midnight.

To this day, he hates the smell of peanut butter.


	13. Peanut Butter, chp3

**Title**: Peanut Butter chp3

**Disclaimer**: them lovely Winchesters ain't mine, yo. -sniff-

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 210

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Dean doesn't eat peanut butter. Ever, far as Sam can tell. He'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Sam and Dad, but even if that's all they have, he won't eat it himself. And that time he helped Sam make peanut butter cookies for the class party, he didn't eat _any_ of the dough at all, even _after_ they rolled it in the sugar. 

And Reese's! Dean never, ever gets close to them if he can help it. Sam doesn't understand it, and has asked, but Dean just tells him it's nothing and to enjoy the freakin' candy.

Dean eats peanut M&M's though, scarfs them down in handfuls. Sam asks about that, too, but Dean just tosses him a few without explaining.

So Sam finally quits asking. Quits noticing. It's just a quirk, one of many that make up his brother. He just always checks that they something else besides peanut butter for sandwiches, some sort of treat that Dean actually enjoys—like Three Musketeers. Dean likes _them_ far more than either Sam or Dad do. So anytime they stop for a snack, that's what Sam picks up for Dean, along with some Reese's for himself.

Finally, Sam doesn't see Dean's slight grimace once he's opened the package anymore.


	14. The Nativity Scene

**Title**: The Nativity Scene  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun.  
**Warnings**: prepilot  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 950  
**Point of view**: third

_for the darling _**fairiekween13**_--love ya, lilsis._

* * *

There's no paper and no bag, no boxes and no bows. Dad's off on a hunt; his last call said he was done but a snowstorm is about to tear through the Midwest, so he's not gonna try driving till it's blown through. 

Dean spent the last of the money on milk yesterday and everything's closed today. He can make nothing last for a long time, but even he can't make the disappointment in Sam's belly satiation.

There are two presents beneath where the tree would be if they had one. Neither is wrapped. There are two places set at the old, rugged table; Dean stole a loaf of bread and Sam conned one of the old women at church out of some ham. The water tastes metallic but it's liquid and it wets their throats.

They sit across from each other and eat, talk about everything and anything and nothing at all. This has never been their best holiday, but neither is it their worst. Dean entertains with stories of what doesn't make it into the legends of Santa(Rudolph actually likes the taste of human flesh and Santa cheats on Mrs. Clause with the Easter Bunny) and Sam performs spot-on impersonations of his teachers and some of the parents he's met at school.

Sam opens his present first. It's covered in an old shirt of Dean's, one he hasn't been able to wear in years. There's blood staining it, and sweat; if Sam didn't know it had been white, he wouldn't be able to tell. It's a book he's been wanting for awhile, _White Fang_. It's third- or fourth-hand, but still in good shape. He thanks Dean with a sincere smile and flips through it, caressing the worn pages.

Dean pulls his present to him, turns it over in his hands. It's swaddled in a towel that's seen better decades. It's a walkman, when he pulls the towel off, beat-up and wounded with time, but when Sam says, "You can fix it, right?" he realizes just what Sam has given him.

"Yeah," he answers, inspecting it, and then looks up to meet Sam's gaze. "I can fix this." He glances back down and adds, "I can make it even better."

Sam reads that night and Dean tinkers around with something most anyone else would have given up on as a lost cause. Dad calls the next morning and says he's on his way, and he's got good news--the victims were so grateful, they paid. It's not much, just a few hundred dollars, but together, Dean and Dad can make it stretch for months. Dean can't stop smiling after the call and he looks around the apartment, trying to find some way to make it better, make it worth coming back to.

Sam watches as Dean cleans the stained floor, washes the chipped plates, scrubs the worn-out counters. He helps straighten up the living quarters, the den and two bedrooms each small enough to be a closet. They don't talk, just move around each other, unneeding of words.

It's just after eight, the morning after the morning after Christmas, when Dad unlocks the door and steps through. He's beat-up and tired, and he's got grocery bags hanging off him.

"Geez, Dad," Dean says, taking all but three from him. "You buy out the store?"

"Something like that," Dad answers. He sends Sam out to the car, where there's even more.

It's enough food for a month and there is still money left over. In the last bag, there's three books Sam's been wanting--_Call of the Wild, King of the Wind_, and a non-fiction book about Greek myths. Bundled up tight next to the books is a knife, honed sharp and biting, glinting silver as light hits it.

"I know it's not much," John says, as Sam sets the books in front of him and Dean traces the edge of the knife.

"Thank you, Dad," Sam replies, looking up. His eyes flick to Dean, who nods. Sam's up like a shot, bounding through the apartment. Dad watches him go with a raised eyebrow and glances at Dean, who only smiles.

Sam hurries back in, a parcel in his hands. It's wrapped neatly, with a beautiful bow and everything. He holds it out to Dad and Dad takes it, looking first at Sam then Dean. Dean smiles again, and Dad turns it over, says, "Boy's, you didn't have to."

They share a look and Mom's smile. "We know," Dean answers. "We wanted to," Sam adds.

Dad slowly and carefully unwraps it, not tearing the paper at all. He folds it back from the book--because that's what it is, an old, worn photo-album--and has to blink back tears. "Oh, boys," he breathes.

Dean ducks his head and Sam runs his hand through his hair. Dad stands, still holding the album with one hand, and reaches out, squeezes Dean's shoulder. "I called Pastor Jim," Dean explains to the floor. "I followed the trail back, far as I could, gathered all the pictures I could find." He glances up, meets Dad's gaze. "Is that alright?"

Dad can only nod and then he looks at Sam. "Thank you," he says to them both and sinks back into his chair, starts looking through the pictures.

Dean closes his eyes and breathes deeply, exhales. Sam settles in the chair next to Dad, studies the pictures intently. He asks Dad about some because the people aren't anyone he's ever met, and Dad softly tells about them, voice sad and low.

Walking over to the counter, Dean takes out what's needed to make pancakes. He looks over his shoulder, at Sam and Dad, huddled together going through a photo-album. He smiles.


	15. a game that I cain't play

**Title**: a game that I cain't play  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"  
**Disclaimer**: the beautifully broken brothers aren't mine. Neither is their father. Title from George Strait's "The Cowboy Rides Away"  
**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot; possible out-of-characterness; lack of verisimilitude, maybe, as I've never been a boy.  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 3910  
**Point of view**: third

* * *

The summer he was sixteen, Dean rode a horse for the first time since he could remember. He was a big black gelding called Griffin and the owner, a widow named Dolores Smith, didn't know what all he was a mix of. "A little of this, a smidge of that," she explained. "My boy David was the only one he let on, so if you can make it, good for you." 

It was as close to a blessing Dean would get. It was also permission.

-

Dad heard tell of a hunt in eastern Kentucky, something that had defeated every hunter so far. He spent the spring researching, waiting for the school year to end; the hunt had waited for decades: it would keep a few more weeks.

Sam was twelve and approaching the rebellious stage quickly. He fought Dad nearly every step of the way, determined to be as difficult as possible. Dean employed every trick he knew, trying to keep the peace.

That summer, Dean asked Dad if he could take a job. They needed the extra money and it would keep Dean from going insane.

"So long as it doesn't take away from the hunt," Dad said, "if you can find one, go ahead."

Dean checked around town—the small grocery was hiring, and the mechanic. Dean knew cars as well as he knew guns, but the store would drive him crazy. He told Mike he'd think about the position and went home to sleep on it. As he walked the rundown road, he saw the pasture with three horses: a Paint mare, a Morgan mare, and a big black gelding. The two mares were grazing peacefully, but the black was cavorting around, tossing his head and snorting.

Dean drifted closer to the fence, completely fascinated. He studied the contours of the black, the play of muscles beneath his skin, the smooth way he moved.

A shrill whistle sounded and the black wheeled around, took off towards a large house in the distance. Slowly, the mares trotted after him.

Dean watched them go and hopped the fence, followed. He was probably about to get shot, trespassing—or maybe stomped to death, if the black returned. Dad would kill him if that happened.

But the image of the black dancing around wouldn't leave him. He had to get closer, to touch—and he didn't understand because he couldn't remember—_we are horse people, love, always have been—_

As he approached the house, he saw the barn behind it. The Morgan vanished between the doors and Dean snuck close, being as quiet and inconspicuous as possible.

"What are you doin' on my land, boy?" a harsh, rickety voice demanded.

He spun around falling into a defense position Dad had drilled into his mind and body.

A woman stood there, old. Wearing faded jeans and a faded shirt, leather boots on her feet. She held a shotgun in her hands, leaned on a shovel. And a big white dog stood beside her.

Dean tried looking as harmless as possible and bet he failed.

"Well?" she demanded, hands tightening on the gun.

"I saw the horses," he said. "I just wanted to get closer."

"You a thief?" she asked, raising a brow.

_Well, yes_, he answered internally, but widened his eyes. "Oh, no, ma'am," he denied. "I've never seen horses so close and they were—" He searched for a word to convey what he wanted and settled on, "Magical."

She softened. Not a lot, but enough that he noticed. "You're a dangerous boy," she observed and the dog bounded over to him, begged for attention. Dean knelt down and scratched behind the dog's ears, rubbed along his side. "That's Dice; my granddaughter named him."

"Hullo, Dice," Dean said, laughing as the dog leaned in close.

"C'mon, boy," the old woman called, moving to the barn. "Let's introduce you to the horses."

Dean stood and followed, Dice beside him.

"This is Melon," she said, pointing to the Morgan. "And that's Pinto." She nodded to the Paint.

The black was waiting at the end of the barn. "And the prince down there, he's Griffin."

"Beautiful," Dean murmured and felt the lady's eyes.

"Well?" she asked. "You gonna help me or not?"

She put him to work that afternoon, feeding and watering the horses, grooming them. Melon was the darling, the one who did her best to help a green boy. She stood there and whuffled softly, making everything easy. And Pinto was the spirited one who moved away every time he got close, laughing at him.

But the lady told him to leave Griffin alone. "He'll bite ya soon as look at ya, boy," she chuckled. "Could only ever stand me or David, my son."

They worked mainly in silence, Dean only speaking to make sure of something. After the horses were seen to, she asked him to help with some other stuff around the house and barn. She served him a couple of sandwiches and water, watched him wolf it down. He thanked her quietly, sincerely, pouring his soul into the words.

"This place is too much work for my old bones," she told him, walking back with him to the barn. "And I don't have the patience to hire on some half-serious teenager. Used to be, I had David, his kids, Sarah and her brood—and Micah. Oh, I miss Micah more every month." She smiled at him then looked at Melon, happily chewing away. "I worried that I'd have to sell—these horses and Dice are the only family I got left. They don't take to just anyone, you know; you're the first person Dice's liked in a long while."

Dean figured he knew where this was going and she didn't disappoint him.

"Want a job, kid?"

He nodded and smiled and stuttered on the words to thank her.

She held up a hand and he calmed. "Make no mistake, boy. It'll be work. The stalls have to be mucked, the horses seen to, exercised. There'll be repairs around the place. Unless you mean business, don't sign on." She smirked. "And, fair warning: I'm a harsh taskmistress."

He assured her he'd never been more serious and could see by her eyes she believed him.

"I'm Dolores Smith," she said, holding out a hand.

"Dean Winchester," he replied, taking it and shaking.

-

That night, he couldn't shut up about Ms. Smith or Melon or Pinto or Dice, but mostly about Griffin. He didn't notice the looks Sam and Dad shared, didn't realize this was the most animated he'd been in years.

"Can I, Dad?" he finally cut himself off, turning pleading eyes on his father. "I swear I'll be available for any hunt."

Dad nodded. "Take the job for the summer, Dean. I think it'll be good for you."

Dean grinned and dug into his spaghetti.

-

He returned to Mike the next day and told him that he'd found another job, helping a lady with her horses.

"Ms. Smith?" Mike asked and Dean nodded. "She's a lovely old girl. I remember when her kids ran the streets. Her daughter Sarah was the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on." Mike sighed. "It'll be a good job, kid. Take care of her."

Dean nodded again. "I will."

Mike clapped him on the shoulder and sent him on his way, saying, "I have to get back to work, son. And you've got an old woman to see."

Dean rushed off, flew through town, barely containing his glee at being so near horses. He'd devoured every book he could find, whenever he had time. He watched horse races, horse shows, and rodeos. He loved them.

And now he was able to touch them, to smell them, to be _close_.

Griffin was dancing in the field again, while Melon and Pinto grazed, side-by-side. Griffin tossed his head, seeming to ask them to join in, but they ignored him. Dean chuckled and Griffin looked his way.

"Hey, boy," Dean said and climbed up the fence. Griffin moved closer and Ms. Smith's words echoed in his head: _He'll bite ya soon as look at ya_. But Dean was captivated by Griffin's perfection, the flawless way he moved, the defiance and—and _magic_ written in his coat and his eyes, every part of his body.

Dean held out a hand and Griffin stretched his neck, daintily sniffed, eye on Dean. Melon and Pinto watched, then Pinto pranced over and shoved Griffin out of the way. Dean scratched along her nose and she turned against the fence, presenting her neck for rubbing. Dean obliged her with a delighted laugh.

Once he was sure Griffin wouldn't savage him, Dean clambered over the fence. Melon trotted over and whuffled at his hair. Pinto stood at his back, between him and Griffin, constantly flicking her ears around. Dean slipped through the mares, headed for the house; Pinto snorted and moved back to her patch of grass, but Melon stayed with him.

Dean looked over his shoulder; Griffin was watching him go.

-

Ms. Smith was in the barn rearranging tack. "We used to have ten horses," she told Dean as he walked in. "One died of old age; he was near-on forty. Two others were sold—after Micah died and David left, no one could control them. Mango, Melon's sister, was killed in an accident on the interstate; an eighteen-wheeler hit her trailer. One of my daughters and two of my grandsons died, too." She gestured for him to move a large saddle. "My Palomino, Flute, got colic. Windchaser, Pinto's mother, died a few weeks after Micah. He'd had her since she was a filly. Dr. Martin, the vet, couldn't explain it; she was healthy, middle-aged."

"Broken heart?" Dean ventured and Ms. Smith smiled sadly.

"I believe so," she replied.

"And the tenth?" Dean asked, moving another saddle.

"A Percheron we had for a few months. One of Micah's old friends had a family emergency and had to get rid of his horses for a bit. We kept Elessar, a steady gray, for a while. He was a good horse."

Dean stretched and glanced out the barn to where Melon stood. Ms. Smith followed his gaze. "She's a sweetie, my old Morgan. I've had her since she was barely a year."

"I think she likes me," Dean said, walking out the barn to gently rub Melon's soft nose.

Ms. Smith laughed and Dice rushed over, demanding attention from his person. "Horses can't be taught, Dean. You're either born for 'em or you're not. And you—you're a horse person." She studied him for a second. "You ever ridden?"

He shook his head and drifted along Melon's flank, petting her. "If I did, I can't remember."

"Well," Ms. Smith called as she entered the tack room, "we'll have to rectify that sometime soon."

Dean jerked around, eyes wide. "You serious?"

"C'mon, boy," she hollered. "My old bones cain't do all the work."

Dean hurried into the barn.

-

That night, Dean sang endless praises of Ms. Smith. He still didn't notice Dad or Sam's shared looks, the smiles creasing their faces. He didn't notice his excited gestures or the light in his eyes.

But Dad and Sam did, and they silently agreed to keep peace with each other for as long as they could, because Dean was so happy.

-

Three weeks after the job started, Ms. Smith said, " Griffin hasn't been ridden in months. My boy David was the only one he let on, so if you can make it, good for you."

But by her eyes and tone, he knew she had faith. She went back to the house, calling, "There'll be baked chicken for lunch, whenever you're hungry." She snapped for Dice to follow.

Melon and Pinto were out in the field. Griffin was in his stall, keeping one eye on Dean and the other on his half-full feed bucket.

"Maybe I should start on Melon," Dean mused, walking into the tack room for a bucket. "Or Pinto." He made sure his chosen had a curry comb, a soft brush, and a hoof-pick before heading to Griffin's stall. "No," he continued, thinking aloud and letting himself in. "If Ms. Smith didn't think I could handle you, she wouldn't have said that."

Griffin flicked an ear at him and Dean softly patted the gelding's neck. "You're a good boy," Dean murmured, keeping his voice even and calm. "You don't want to bite me; I promise, compared to them oats, I don't taste all that good. Honest."

He set the comb to Griffin's side and began gently rubbing. He combed all over, then brushed, talking all the while, describing Dad and Sam and what little he could remember of Mom. He went slowly and surely, in no rush at all. And when he backed away to drop the brush and grab the pick, Griffin followed. He leaned down to whuffle at Dean's hair, to lightly lip at his sleeve, and Dean giggled, gently shoved his head away.

He bent over and firmly gripped Griffin's foot, did his best to be quick and thorough. Griffin suffered through each hoof and Dean wondered where the beast Ms. Smith had implied the black was had gotten to.

"Of course," Dean said, "I haven't saddled you yet, so there's still time."

He fit the halter over Griffin's head and led the gelding from his stall, tied him to the post. He patted Griffin as he walked by toward the tack room, determined to always let the big black know where he was.

Griffin snorted as Dean laid the saddle pad on him, but he tossed his head when Dean placed the saddle over it. "Sorry, boy," Dean breathed, making sure it was even. "I can imagine how much you hate this part."

The black snorted again and Dean replied, "Okay, I can't. Not like I've ever worn a saddle; you're right about that." He stuck out his tongue and Griffin tossed his head a second time. Dean swiftly tightened the cinch and pulled it through, softly apologizing the whole time. Griffin stamped his hind hoof and Dean's gaze shot to his ears.

"If a horse is about to attack," Ms. Smith had explained, though Dean'd already known, "the ears'll always warn you. Keep aware of a horse's body language. Never, _ever_ forget how big or strong they are."

Dean warily approached Griffin's head, bridle in hand. He made sure Griffin saw him before making another move. Then he worked swiftly, movements calm and sure. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, discussing the Arabian breed's history. "They're the children of the wind, you know," he said. "Fleet of foot, over the desert sand. Beautiful." He unhooked the halter from Griffin's neck and let it fall. "But you'll be just as magnificent, I bet. Maybe more."

Before leading Griffin from the barn, Dean double-checked the stirrup length. Then, still talking, he walked from the barn and through the fence, Griffin keeping pace at his shoulder. Dean shut the fence behind them and Griffin looked toward the mares, neighing. Melon swished her tail and Pinto neighed back.

Dean swiftly stuck one foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle, swinging himself up. Griffin danced sideways a step, but Dean held on and settled into the saddle. He made sure the stirrups fit, then waited to see what Griffin would do.

Griffin stepped forward and Dean moved with the horse, trying to find his balance. He pulled his right hand back, gripping the rein; with barely a struggle, Griffin turned in a circle. Dean smiled and laughed, and gave Griffin his head, letting the horse go where he would.

It felt right. Dean marveled at the feeling; the only comparison he had was holding a gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger, but moving with Griffin felt _better_. He clucked and Griffin went faster, trotted. Dean laughed again and turned Griffin to the left, another circle. Griffin pranced and tossed his head, trotted quicker. Dean let him go, caught up in the moment.

But he felt it when Griffin prepared to lunge forward. He swiftly tightened the reins; if Griffin hadn't been ridden in months, he couldn't let the horse overdo it. Griffin pranced but slowed.

Dean moved with him, settling into Griffin's stride. He watched the play of muscles beneath Griffin's skin in wonder. He'd never seen anything as beautiful as the horse in all his life.

He clucked, letting Griffin trot faster. He trotted around the pasture for awhile, turning circles every so often, warming Griffin up. Luckily, it was a cloudy day.

Finally, he lightly kicked and Griffin surged forward, lengthening his stride. Dean whooped and held on, laughing and laughing, unable to stop. Griffin cantered around the pasture and it was perfect. Dean couldn't imagine anything every equaling it, ever being better. The wind whooshed past him; Melon and Pinto cantered with them, and Dean couldn't believe he'd ever get tired of it.

-

That night, Dean was silent at the dinner table. He could already tell he'd ache in the morning. And he knew it'd kill him to leave after Dad finished the hunt.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, eyes on Dean.

"I cantered today," Dean said softly. "It was perfect."

Sam frowned, searching for how that could be bad, could lead to his brother being morose.

"Your mother loved horses," Dad said, focusing on his hamburger. "Sometimes, I thought she wouldn't come back home, that she'd join the herd forever."

Dean looked at his father, face full of wonder. "Really?"

Dad nodded. "She took you riding when you were little, put you on the saddle in front of her. I was always terrified one of you would fall off, but ya'll never did. I don't think there was a horse born that would throw your mother." He smiled gently at Dean before taking a bite of his burger. "I bet it's the same with you."

-

Every day after that, Dean rode Griffin. Sometimes Ms. Smith got on Pinto or Melon and kept pace; sometimes she didn't. Sam stopped by frequently, but he kept his distance from the horses.

Dean couldn't understand. Sam showered attention on Dice and the two cats that showed up, but he shied away from Griffin, from Pinto—even from gentle Melon.

He shrugged when Dean asked. "They're so big," he said, like that explained anything. "Don't they ever step on you?"

Dean shook his head. Sam shrugged again.

-

"Was I ever scared of horses?" Dean asked as he helped Dad research. Sam was taking a break, reading _White Fang_, which Dean had gotten him for Christmas the year before.

"I don't think so," Dad answered. "You were never scared of any animal. I found you playing with a snake when you were two, and some big spider once." He chuckled. "Your mother was like that, too. I kept expecting her to shriek if she found a bug or mouse, but she dealt with them herself, put them outside. Said her parents hadn't raised her to fear nature, or disrespect it." He smiled down at his book. "Her parents were good people, Dean. You'd'a liked 'em, I think. Her mother was just like her, like you. Horse-fools, her daddy called all three'a ya."

"Horse-fools," Dean repeated, trying out the words. "I think I like the sound of that."

"Dean," Dad said seriously. "I've almost figured out what this thing is. It'll be over in a couple of weeks, a month at the most. I know you've grown attached to that woman, her horses. But we can't stay after the hunt."

"I know," Dean replied softly. "I know, Dad."

"I'm sorry, son." Dad's voice was full of regret, full of sorrow. Dean couldn't know he saw Mary in his mind's eye, their baby in front of her, on the back of a giant gray horse, both laughing joyfully.

"I know you are, Dad," Dean forgave him. "But saving people, hunting things—that's more important than anything."

-

A week before Dad hunted the spirits—he'd discovered a mine collapsed, killing dozens of men—Dean convinced Sam to get up on Melon.

"She's a calm horse, Sammy," Dean assured him. "And I'll be leading her from the ground. Riding a horse is safer than driving a car."

Sam sat like a lump on Melon's back, uneasy. Dean talked as he led Melon around, trying to take Sam's mind off his fear. He still couldn't figure out how Sam was afraid of horses.

"It's cool enough," Sam said, after he was safely back on the ground. "But I'll stick to my own feet."

Griffin gently butted against Dean's back and with a laugh, he pulled himself on from the dirt, no stirrups and no saddle. Sam gaped up at him.

"Are you insane?" his little brother demanded. "You'll fall off!"

Dean's laughter filled the air around them and he urged Griffin into a trot, then a canter. He molded himself to the black's body, holding on with every part of him, and he'd never felt freer.

It was perfect. _Horse-fools_, Dad'd said. Dean could believe it.

-

"You come back one day," Ms. Smith said when he told her goodbye. "I'll hold onto that horse until I die, but he didn't even take to David like he took to you."

Dean nodded, burying his face against Griffin's side. Dice whined at Ms. Smith's feet.

"You're a good boy, Dean," she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come back one day, and this old monster is yours."

He didn't watch her go but listened to her steps recede. Dice rubbed up against his legs and Dean blinked back tears.

Dad was waiting at their house, and Sammy. Dean had known he couldn't stay. That he'd have to leave. Griffin whuffled and Melon whinnied. She and Pinto were in the pasture, waiting for their brother.

"Children of the wind," he said into Griffin's dark mane and laughed. "I wish you happy running, Griffin." He pushed off the big horse and rubbed at his eyes. Griffin swung his head around and gently butted into Dean's chest. "Go on, boy," Dean told him, moving away. "I have to leave."

He didn't look as he ran to the fence, didn't glance over his shoulder as he hopped it, and he bit back tears as he rushed down the road. He heard the horses running with him along the fence, heard Griffin's whinny—but he didn't look.

_Horse-fools_, Dean thought as he slammed the door behind him. _That must be why it hurts so damned much. _Sam didn't speak when Dean burst into the kitchen, chest heaving, gasping for air. He just offered Dean a compassionate glance and got him a glass of water.

Dad hustled them into the Impala; Dean bundled himself in the backseat and stared at his hands. Still, no one spoke. Dad turned the radio low. Sam sat in the front, flipping through _White Fang_ till he found his spot.

Dean didn't look out the window till they crossed into Tennessee.

-

The next day, Dad let Dean drive the Impala for the first time. He pointed the Impala down the interstate and Dad didn't say anything when Dean broke eighty miles an hour.

In his mind, Dean saw Griffin racing the wind. And as much fun as driving fast was, it just couldn't compare to being on the back of that horse.


	16. Freedom

**Title**: Freedom 

**Disclaimer**: the horse and dog are mine; just for fun. 

**Warnings**: pre-pilot 

**Pairings**: none 

**Rating**: G 

**Wordcount**: 280 

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam watches Dean and Griffin cantering across the pasture, wishing he understood. But he doesn't, can't—horses are just so _big_. Dangerous. Griffin could kill Dean, if he wanted, and Sam wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. 

But Dean doesn't seem to notice how deadly horses are, especially Griffin. He talks to the horse like it can comprehend, moves around it with ease. 

Sam studies Dean as he urges Griffin to go faster. He looks good on the horse, right. Like he was meant to ride. Dad had said Mom used to ride—Sam wonders if she was as good as Dean. More than likely, she was. Not better, though. No one's better than Dean. 

Griffin canters over, Dean pulling the horse up just in front of Sam. "C'mon, Sammy," he says, smiling, leaning down and holding out a hand. 

Sam's eyes widen. Dean _can't_ mean— 

"C'mon, Sam," he repeats. "Trust me. It'll be fun." 

The large white dog, Dice, lopes over and licks Sam's face. "There's this place I know," Dean wheedles, not moving. "You'll love it." 

"But I…" Sam trails off, licks his lips. "I have to get on the horse." 

Dean nods, his smile gentling. "Trust me, Sammy. I won't let you fall." He pats Griffin with his other hand. "Griffin won't let you fall." 

Sam wants to ask how Dean can possibly know that, but he's always understood horses in a way that Sam can't. 

Sam looks up past the impossible large horse, to Dean. Dean, his big brother, who never lets anything happen to him, even if he is a jerk sometimes. 

"Okay," Sam says, and reaches out to take Dean's hand. 


	17. The Actor In Us All

**Title**: The Actor In Us All

**Disclaimer**: Only the Winchesters aren't mine.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1890

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Heather Salinas loved teaching, always had. She taught her sisters and brothers plays they performed for the neighbors; she taught the neighborhood kids songs they could sing to their parents or friends; she taught herself how to act to keep tears at bay. 

She grew from a scrawny little girl to a lithe dancer in the blink of an eye. She had dreams and places to go—a torn tendon in her knee changed all that quite suddenly at practice one day and Heather was kicked to the curb.

She returned home, head low and knee aching while her soul sobbed. Only Penelope still lived in their childhood home: Nick, Brandon, Chris, Monica, and Ann had all left to pursue their own dreams; Heather wished them better luck than she'd had. Penelope stayed for Momma and Daddy.

For three weeks Heather moped around the house, cleaning it, making it shine. "I miss my bright girl," Daddy said and Heather answered, "I do, too."

"Do you want a job?" Penelope asked. "There's an opening at the school where I teach."

Heather's soul unfurled its wings a bit. "What type of job?" she replied, trying to keep her hopes down.

"Drama. Nate just moved out of town because of health reasons with no warning, so if a new teacher isn't found quickly, the kids'll be the ones who pay." Penelope grinned and finished, "Don't you want your life back, Hetty?"

Heather thought long and hard; a week later she turned in her application. And a week after that, she rode to school with her baby sister for the first time in almost a decade.

Heather taught drama with the passion she'd once used for dancing. She made friends with most of the faculty, especially Georgiana Dubois, the art teacher.

The students were drawn in by her enthusiasm, her love for life. Many of them knew she'd been on the fast track to stardom and they loved to hear about the dreams she used to have.

Years passed swiftly, none ever the same. Some teachers, she knew, grew bored with the monotony, the same thing each year.

Heather loved it. New kids, new dreams, new ways to touch them. She aged gracefully, from a twenty-five year old teacher to thirty-six year old teacher—and then he came.

Him. The boy with the most talent she'd ever seen in one body.

Three days into the school year, he slouched into her classroom, wearing a beat-up old coat and a _don't mess with me _expression. She'd seen his kind a thousand times before—or so she thought.

She called roll and his name never appeared. "And you are?" she asked, not snotty just curious.

"Dean," he answered, voice hoarse. He also had fading bruises on his face.

"You're not on my list, Dean," she said, flipping through the two pages.

She glanced up in time to see his expression changed completely, from _bad boy_ to _earnest student. _"The office promised me it'd come, Ms. Salinas." Heather wanted to role her eyes; **_Prince Charming at work, people, _**she thought, and knew half the class had already fallen in love with him.

"You'll need to go back to the office, Dean, and get a note," she told him, standing and walking around her desk to hop on it.

He nodded and stood slowly. He walked from the corner into the light streaming through the window. He looked up at her through his bangs and smiled; if she hadn't been already sitting, she'd have collapsed.

Heather had never before lain eyes on perfection, and she hoped his soul was as ugly as his face was beautiful, so that she'd be able to dislike him.

For some reason, she doubted it.

-

The next day, he slouched in again. He stood by her desk waiting for acknowledgment. Finally she looked up and asked, "Yes?"

He smiled and placed a note in front of her. "This is my third hour, Ms. Salinas," he drawled, hazel eyes laughing. Up close, the bruises looked a hundred times worse and if she hadn't been an actor herself, she wouldn't have seen the shadows in the back of his eyes.

She read the note and nodded. "Pick a seat, Mr. Winchester," she said, finally learning his last name.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured and headed to the seat he'd had yesterday.

"Wait, Mr. Winchester," she called and he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Kayla," Heather said, "take that seat."

Kayla stood, grabbing her stuff, and passed him; Heather hadn't noticed how large he was until five foot nothing Kayla stood next to him. "Take Kayla's desk, Mr. Winchester," Heather finished, and he did.

For the rest of the month, he only attended ten days of school. He only spoke when spoken to. He didn't demand attention like most boys who looked even remotely like him, which surprised her.

She wanted to talk with his other teachers, see if he was the same for them. She wanted to talk with his parents, who he never mentioned at all, to anyone, from what she could tell. She wanted to sit down and talk—really **talk**—with him, ask about the bruises and the shadows in his eyes. Ask about the mask he pulled on every day.

Heather heard from George about Sam, Dean's younger brother.

"He's a kind soul," serene George drawled, flipping through a magazine during their usual lunch in Heather's room. "Eager to please, talented—quite the actor, though, Hetty." She glanced up at Heather, eyes solemn. "Sound familiar?"

"What should we do?" Heather asked.

George looked back down at her magazine and said softly, "Nothing we can do. No proof and neither of them'll say anything, ever."

The bell rang and the year continued.

-

In December Dean missed a full two weeks in a row. Sam showed up, though, with a broken arm and haunted green eyes.

"Car accident," he said, "In the mountains."

He stopped by Heather's room during her off-hour and stood by her desk silently waiting for acknowledgment.

She looked up and met his gaze. "Yes, Mr. Winchester?"

He looked away and said, "Ms. Salinas, Dean wanted me to tell you he's really sorry for missin' your class. He was lookin' forward to the play."

She chuckled. "Was he now?"

Sam smiled. "Yes'm, he was."

Heather stared up at him and studied his features. He really looked nothing like his brother at all, except for the shadows—knowledge? pain? fear?—shielded by smiles in the back of his fathomless gaze.

**_Maybe I should have been a poet, 'stead of a dancer,_** she commented to herself, watching Sam shuffle nervously. "Well," she began after an uncomfortable moment, "you've delivered your message, Sam. Don't you have a class to get to?"

"Yes'm," he nodded and smiled his _everything's fine, just don't look too close_ smile, the one she'd perfected before he'd even been born. Sam shuffled out and she called to his back, "You thought about tryin' out?"

His laughter hung around her long after he faded from sight.

**_Yes_**, she decided, resuming her grading, **_ya'll are brothers, alright._**

**-**

Dean came back with more shadows and an easier smile. Heather watched him like a hawk, gleaning tidbits from other teachers, students, and Dean himself.

She knew for a fact that sometimes he let something slip on purpose. She understood—he had few, if any, equals in the school and fun sometimes had to be made.

In January play practice started. Sam had tried out and made it; Dean showed up every now and then to watch. Heather let him; none of the cast or crew said anything it, though no one else was allowed.

Something about Dean whispered of danger, sometimes. Heather'd heard that Dean's second week of school involved making a bully cry. Witnesses—all three of them—said Daniel Michelin—a large, solid football player, the leader of the students—had cornered Dean with two of his large, solid friends.

Names had been called and challenges thrown. Daniel and his thugs clearly expected Dean to back down, fall to the bottom of the social ladder.

**_Boy looks like that_**, Heather had thought upon learning of the incident, **_who can blame them worrying about their positions? _**

One of the witnesses, a freshman named Holly, had said, "He just smiled. He laughed. He didn't move, didn't blink—just _laughed_ in their faces!"

Daniel, of course, didn't take too kindly to that and reached out to shove Dean. Dean caught his hand before it ever entered his space and growled, low and soft, "Don't touch me, Dan." The smile had dropped from his face and a cold, deadly serious look replaced it. He released Daniel's hand, eyes completely—

"Empty," Will, one of Daniel's back-up, said later. "They were—man, I've never felt so—scared. Totally scared of what he was gonna do."

Daniel didn't back down, though. He reached out again and Dean let him grab his shoulder, face and eyes still empty. Daniel tried to shove him, but Dean didn't move. Will and Mick shared a glance, Holly told the principle. "They both looked… uncertain? Like they didn't want to be involved anymore."

And then Dean's face thawed into a smirk. In a blur of motion, he shoved Daniel away, into the lockers across the hall. "Self-defense," he said, mocking. "C'mon, Dan—let me defend myself some more."

Something old, dangerous, peered out from behind his eyes and Mick slowly backed away, then hurried down the hall. He didn't look back.

Dean's smirk widened and he glanced at Will, who also turned tail and ran. "Daniel isn't worth taking on Winchester," he explained, "and everyone who saw him will agree."

Holly backed away, almost to the corner; Greg, a junior, chose that moment to leave; and Jack, another senior, stepped closer.

Dean glanced his way once and Jack froze. "I felt… the fear an antelope feels before it sees the lion," Jack said, struggling for words. "I couldn't—I left."

Only Holly saw what happened next. She refused to speak of it. All the administration learned was that Daniel had a fractured wrist and didn't look at Dean for the rest of the year.

Daniel left the office sobbing and kept his eyes averted from a somber Dean on his way out.

-

James Friedman, the English IV teacher, was the only one Dean ever came close to opening up to. George came in second place; art and writing were both very personal, and could shed a lot of light on a person. And while George shared his drawings, James never shared his papers.

All of his teachers watched him, wondering if they should intervene. He wouldn't accept the help, wouldn't aid them in putting whoever hurt him behind bars, and Sam would follow his lead.

And then with two weeks left till graduation Dean quit coming to school. And Sam, too. Both gone, lost somewhere in the shuffle, and Heather contemplated hunting their daddy down and ripping him a new one.

But there was too much to do. Students to be taught and tests to grade and parents to take care of. Penelope had finally moved out, married, had a life of her own—and Momma and Daddy were suddenly so _old_.

Heather now knew how parents felt, blinking and their kids were grown.


	18. What Does My Room Say About Me?

**Title**: What Does My Room Say About Me? 

**Disclaimer**: Only the Winchesters aren't mine. 

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot; pre-pilot 

**Rating**: PG 

**Wordcount**: 1100  
**Point of view**: third

* * *

Dean Winchester 

English IV Hour II 

Mr. Friedman 

January 12, 1996 

What Does My Room Say About Me? 

My room tells 

- 

**Room I**

Soft blue walls—robin's egg blue, Mary told him_, Dean'll love it, baby_— 

Dancing bears and prancing horses and birds flying—no trucks or cars, she gently demanded, _My son won't be vehicle-crazy_ (**too late**, he thought**, he's my son**) 

Yellow blankets, old and faded and soft—_No_, she told him, pulling him down for a kiss while Dean kicked in her womb, _they're perfect, baby._

**Room II**

Darker blue walls, small bed and fluffy pillows; yellow wallpaper with lions and tigers; legos and action figures littering the floor. 

Books, old and tattered, haphazardly thrown around; blue blankets draping off the bed; window thrown open to let in the sun— 

_Do I get a brother soon, Mommy?_ asked every night. 

_Yes, baby, soon_, she whispered and kissed him goodnight. 

**Room III**

Stench of fire, memory of pain, _It'll be okay, Sammy._

Rough hotel blankets in succession; knives and guns; books and newspapers—_don't touch the weapons, Dean, and keep Sammy away from 'em_—hard pillows and little food. Clothes with holes and stained with flame—_John_, he heard her say, _take better care of my boys. Give them a real home._

**Room IV**

Two years in the same room—closest to home in a lifetime. 

Cream walls and double bed, clothes spread all over and books scattered on the floor, interspersed with guns, knives, and their paraphernalia. 

Flower wallpaper, put up before they came and not worth a fight; radio that always played hard rock 'cept when little brother—_Sammy_, roommate—brought out the puppy eyes. 

The room became home; he was finally comfortable there, and Dad said, _Time to move on._

**Room V**

White walls stained with grime; old, dirty mattress; see-through blankets. Ragged dresser, tarnished dark by misuse and time; clothes spotted by blood and remains claim the floor, with knives and guns in their proper places. 

_These weapons are your life, Dean,_ Dad said. _Treat them as you would yourself—or your brother._

Three years—from Sammy in kindergarten till Dean nearly died in the sinkhole—that room was nearly home—not quite, though. Home was Momma and Daddy and Sammy and Dean—without Momma, there was no home. 

**Room VI**

Five more years, never a room longer than six months. Sammy grew and Dean grew, but Dad stayed the same—hard and rough and more patient than a mountain. He rarely lost his temper, in the early years, up till Sammy hit thirteen and became Sam. And Dean would stand between them—even when he stormed away, let them fight it out, he still stood between then, begging them to stop because it killed him that they never could agree. 

He and Sam(my) quit sharing rooms; Dean brought in his own income, hustling and petty thievery. They settled down for Dean's senior year—Dad swore this room—light brown with dark green paper, ratty furniture, and old stains—would be the final one for a long time—_Dean, I want you to have one normal year. Your—your mother would have wanted your senior year to be the best, stable. And, Dean—I swear it will be._

Dean always knew when Dad lied—_Don't worry, Santa'll find us_ and come Christmas morning, Dad passed out on the couch, not a present in sight—but he also knew Dad always tried his best. 

And Dean finally let down his guard, believed he'd found home at last, a life—school and hunting equally balanced—he could live happily for a long time. 

- 

The assignment nearly broke him. He thought long and hard and began a thousand times, in the car and the apartment, sitting in class, at lunch—he wrote pages and pages, but none of it felt right, so he crumpled each up, hid it in his room or threw it away. 

For a week and a half, it consumed him, every waking thought. 

And then Dad told him of a new hunt and Sam(my) balked and Dean had to referee and then he stormed out of the apartment, stalked through the night, wondering when life had gotten so damn **hard**. 

His thoughts turned to the paper and he knew he wouldn't(couldn't) finish it, couldn't turn it in. 

It just hurt too much. 

- 

James Friedman flipped through the Room papers and felt disappointed when one name never popped up. 

"Dean," he called as his second hour filed out. The boy paused and glanced over his shoulder. 

He had a black eye and split lip, and James had noticed the limp, the careful way Dean moved. "Yes, Mr. Friedman?" he asked. 

"I noticed you didn't turn in a paper," James said, not accusing, but letting the disappointment show. 

Something flickered in Dean's hazel eyes; James couldn't classify it—it wasn't anger or hurt or anything he recognized—maybe a combination thereof. "I know," Dean answered. "Sorry, Mr. Friedman—I just…" He looked away and ran his hand across his face. "I've had too many—I had too much else to do." He met James' eyes again. "I'm sorry." 

He wasn't asking forgiveness and he clearly thought he didn't need it, but James could also see the regret. Dean loved to write, loved to please—James expected abuse, but knew Dean would never say so. "There's another assignment coming up," he said, in place of demands about Dean's home life, in place of offering help Dean would never accept in any lifetime. "It won't make up for the paper, but it could balance it out." 

Dean smiled, a quick, bright grin that lit up the room. "See you later, Mr. Friedman." He exited, leaving James to tests and papers and lesson plans. 

James sighed. That paper could have told him so much of Dean. 

- 

_ My room tells nothing of me. The walls are bare, without adornment—I've never had the time to put up posters, to hang pictures; even the wallpaper isn't mine._

_ Clothes are scattered about; all three of us—Dad and Sam and me—are too busy, usually, to keep up with the chores. Even when someone does it, unless it's me it's done wrong. _

_ You know what? My room says nothing of me, Mr. Friedman, and I have more important things to do. So I'll just tear up this paper, throw it in the garbage, and go on. There's a hunt waiting, and Dad needs supper, and someone needs to check Sam's homework. _

_ Mom's dead. It's up to me. _


	19. Knight in Broken Armor

**Title**: Knight In Broken Armor

**Disclaimer**: John, Jim, Dean, and Sam aren't mine; just for fun.

**Warnings**: mentions of underaged whoring; pre-pilot

**Pairings**: a bit of OMC/OFC, a smidge of OMC/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 2060

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She's a tiny lil'thing with large dark eyes, long dark hair, and dark skin. Hispanic, five foot nothing, no more'n thirteen, though likely not even that. Wearin' a pale pink shift and too much purple eyeshadow; beneath the sleeves, there're bruises. In the shadows lurk three shapes, each smaller than the last. 

He's seventeen and angry—with the world, with Dad, with Sammy—so he took Dad's Impala and left 'em screamin' at each other. He'll be in trouble when gets back, but at the moment he's too pissed to care.

He leaves the Impala down the street and approaches slowly, keepin' his hands in sight. She stares at him with her chocolate gaze and he sees the fear lurkin' in her.

She wouldn't fight him and she'd hope he'd pay, and for a moment, Dean hates his gender.

He stops just out of reach, hunchin' down to appear smaller than his six feet. He has a hundred dollars in his pocket from hustlin' pool and blowin' some guy, and Dad's made him mad, so he'll spend it on this girl 'stead'a bullets.

"C'mon," he says, holdin' out a hand. "Bring 'em, too." His eyes flick to her shadows.

She flinches and something in her face hardens. There's steel in this girl, yet, iron. "No," she whispers. "We stay here and you don't go near them." Her accent is soft, barely noticeable. She's adorable, in a melancholy way, and'll be gorgeous when she's all grown.

"You do drugs?" he asks, leanin' against the wall.

"No." Her tone is sincere and he believes her.

So he pulls out a wad of bills and steps forward, forces it into her hand. "Spend it on food," he murmurs and takes off. He doesn't look back.

-

Next night, he's at that spot again, grittin' his teeth as he watches men use her. One of them gets violent, slaps her across the face.

And Dean decides that's enough. He couldn't take out his anger on Dad or Sammy—refused to—so he stalks up to the bastard whalin' on a little girl and grabs him, tosses him into a wall.

By the time he's done, the girl is cowerin' with her shadows, three little boys somewhere between six and ten. They all have identical eyes—huge and brown and terrified.

Dean's knuckles are bleedin' and achin', but the bastard's unconscious. He takes a deep breath and says, "Follow me."

They do. He leads them to the Impala and opens the back door for the boys, then shotgun for the girl. She huddles in the seat, arms wrapped around herself, constantly checkin' on the boys.

"What's your name?" he asks, turnin' up the heat. He saw a neat little diner at the edge of town—Mr. Friedman told him they make killer hamburgers.

"Whatever you want it to be," she mutters.

"No," he replies. "Whatever _you_ want it to be."

She looks at him but he focuses on drivin'. The boys are silent in the backseat and that feels unnatural to Dean; he remembers Sam at their ages, and Sam was never still.

"Maria," she finally whispers.

"Maria," Dean repeats. "Pretty name. I'm Dean."

He doesn't ask for the boys' names. He knows what it's like, havin' a baby brother to take care of; he can't imagine havin' _three_.

There's a gas station down the street from the diner. He breaks into the bathroom and tells the kids to follow him in. He cleans everyone up as best he can and thinks it'll have to be enough.

"Now," he says, "let's eat."

-

All four of them are too small. Underfed and wary, waiting for him to yell and punch. Even before their current life, he can tell, they weren't safe.

Pastor Jim is an hour away and the Impala has a full tank of gas. Dean thinks about takin' them there, gettin' 'em off the streets before it's too late and there's no way out.

The smallest boy inhales a hamburger and drinks three Sprites. Maria fusses at him in Spanish and Dean doesn't let on that he's fluent. The kid's name is Jaime and he pouts at Maria, but she doesn't relent.

"Only water for him, now, please," Maria asks Dean and he nods.

The middle brother is Benny and he never meets Dean's eyes. He eats his hamburger slowly, steadily, and sips his water. He doesn't speak to his siblings and looks only at Miguel, the oldest brother.

Miguel finishes his burger swiftly, though not as swiftly as Jaime, and gets a refill on his Sprite. He murmurs to Benny in lilting Spanish. Dean wonders if any of them but Maria speak English.

The boys sit on one side of the booth, Jaime at the wall and Miguel on the end. Maria sits beside Dean, careful not to touch, shivering. He drapes his jacket over her and she flinches but doesn't shake it off.

Once the hamburgers are gone, Dean orders apple pie and sundaes. Jaime and Miguel dig into them with relish, and Maria tries some. But Benny just stares at his hands. Dean wonders why this kid is so withdrawn when his brothers aren't, and all the conclusions he reaches just piss him off even more.

After the desserts are gone, he holds the doors for the kids again. "Please take us back," Maria softly pleads.

"Do you have any belongin's you want?" he asks and Maria sucks in a breath.

"_Please_," she whispers, turning her large, dark eyes on him.

Benny speaks suddenly. "Photographs." Dean glances in the rearview. "Back at the apartment." He has no accent at all and, meetin' his eyes, Dean knows he's lookin' at a little player.

"You know how to get there?" he questions and Benny replies with flawless directions.

Maria blisters her brother with a torrent of harsh Spanish; Benny listens without argument and then tells Dean, "Turn left here."

Dean pulls up in front of an old apartment building. "I'll get our things," Benny says. He reaches forward to grip Maria's shoulder. "Stay here, sister," he murmurs in Spanish. "We can trust this man."

Benny slips out of the Impala and smiles at Miguel before closing the door. Maria hisses something and grabs for the handle, but Miguel says, "Let him go, Ria."

Maria turns in her seat to glare at him. Miguel continues, "It's over. This man wants to help us—Benjamin is right."

Dean watches outside the car, on the lookout for any threat. Benny hurries back with a beat-up booksack. It's filled to burstin' and Dean gets out of the car, pops the trunk for him.

Once he's back in the car, Maria asks, "What are you goin' do with us?" She's still huddled against the door.

"I have a friend—he'll he able to help you." Dean keeps his voice soft, kind. "He's one of the best men I've ever known."

Silence goes unbroken for almost an hour, but finally Maria asks, "Why are you doin' this? What do you want from me—us?"

Dean shrugs. "Helpin' people's what I do. And I don't want anythin', sweetheart—not from you or them boys."

He pulls up Pastor Jim's driveway, around the back. Jaime's asleep, slumped on Miguel, and Miguel's almost passed out on Benny. Maria, though, is wide awake, and Benny's tenaciously clingin' to consciousness. "Stay here," Dean tells her. "Everythin's gonna be fine, I promise."

He waits until she meets his gaze—he's never seen a sadder pair of eyes. "Men have told me that before," she whispers in Spanish, turnin' to watch her brothers.

Dean reaches out to touch her but lets his hand drop before contact. "If you trust me and my friend," he replies, also in Spanish, "you'll never have to sell yourself again."

He doesn't wait for her reaction, just slips from Dad's Impala and pads up to Pastor Jim's door, softly knocks.

"Dean?" Pastor Jim says he opens it. "You in trouble, son?"

Dean sags against the jamb, tells him, "I found some strays. I need your help."

-

Maria refuses to meet Pastor Jim's eyes. Dean carries in Jaime, then Miguel, though Benny walks in himself. Pastor Jim tells Dean to put the boys in one of the guest beds, one he and Sammy had shared years before. Miguel and Jaime curl up together, then Benny slides beneath the covers, too.

Maria stands silently, waitin'. She looks young and resigned. "Dean," Pastor Jim says, pullin' him into the kitchen. "Does John know where you are?"

Dean avoids his gaze, looks at the floor. "I'll be back before he knows I'm gone."

"And Sam?" Pastor Jim asks, voice knowin'.

Dean shrugs. "They're so wrapped-up in their fight, they wouldn't even notice if I never went back."

"Dean," Pastor Jim rebukes, raising Dean's chin with a light touch. "You know better than that. There ain't a thing in the world your daddy and brother love more than you."

Dean scoffs and shakes his head. He wants to let Pastor Jim comfort him, wants to stay and wrap himself up in gentle kindness—but he has to get back or Dad'll kick his ass.

Maria is standin' in the doorway of the boys' room, waitin'. She looks up from the floor as Dean walks over. "Trust Pastor Jim, kid," he says gruffly. "He's a good man."

"Will I…" She pauses, licks her lips, continues in Spanish. "Will I see you again?"

Dean smiles. "If you wanna." He lightly grips her shoulder then kisses her forehead, noddin' to Pastor Jim on the way out.

She's a sweet girl; she and the boys have a future now, have hope. Pastor Jim will help them—he'll know a place they can go. And he'll keep them together, out of the system.

He goes home, to Dad's frosty silence and Sam's angry stare. But at least, he thinks, parkin' and lookin' up at the apartment buildin', they're together. He knows where they are, knows they're safe. He can take care of them.

He'll call Pastor Jim late tomorrow, see how the kids are settlin' in, see what he plans to do with them.

-

"You know what time it is?" Dad demands quietly as he shuts the door.

"Yes're," he replies just as softly. "I had somethin' to do."

"Without tellin' me?" Dad rises out of his chair, stalks over.

Dean stands his ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I should'a told you I was goin'."

"You'll run five extra miles after school tomorrow," Dad tells him.

Dean nods, says softly, "Yes, sir."

Dad really was worried about him, he sees now. Dean isn't the son who takes off without word, the one who storms away and is gone without warnin'.

"I _am_ sorry, sir," he says as Dad sinks onto the couch. "Dad, I just—" He can't think of what to say, of how to explain.

Dad reaches up to grab his shoulder. He squeezes tightly, almost enough to hurt. Dean settles next to him and Dad shifts his hand, grips the back of his neck. "You can't vanish like that, Dean," Dad tells him. "I didn't know what to do, where to begin searchin'."

Dean nods. "I won't do it again, Dad. I promise."

Dad lets him go. "Head on to bed, son. You got school in the mornin'."

Dean rises and slowly walks to his room, turnin' at the door to look at Dad. Dad's got his head in his hands, scrunched up—for the first time in his life, Dean thinks of Dad as _old_. But he's barely forty, yet.

"Goodnight, Dad," Dean calls softly and Dad straightens up.

"Goodnight, son," he replies with a small, sad smile.

-

Sam's asleep in Dean's bed, tangled in Dean's blankets. Books are spread out over Sam's bed and Dean's too tired to move them. He slips in beside Sam and sighs.

Four kids, each bruised and wary, alone but for each other. He doesn't know their story—though he hopes one day they'll trust him enough to tell him.

At least Pastor Jim can help them now.

"Dean?" Sam murmurs, more asleep than awake. He rolls over, eyelids flickerin' open for a moment before shuttin' again. "You're back."

"Yeah, Sammy," he responds. "Sorry for just takin' off."

Sam mutters, "Don't ever do it again."

For the second time that night, Dean promises, "I won't."


	20. just not myself while you're away

**Title**: just not myself while you're away

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Where've You Been" performed by Kathy Mattea.

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: part of my Dean canon

* * *

John wishes he could talk about Mary, could tell her boys about their mother. But the words hurt too much, get stuck in his throat, choke him. It'd peel back the scab to talk about her, so he doesn't. 

Dean has a few memories, John knows. Scant rememberings that can't possibly do Mary justice. And Sammy has nothing of her at all but what Dean tells him.

John wishes he could describe her laugh, her smile, her scent—hell, even the way her anger burned bright for a few minutes then fading away.

Dean has her temper, unable to stay angry for long. Dean has so much of Mary it hurts, sometimes.

She loved horses, Mary. John was going to buy her one for their fifteenth anniversary, a Morgan mare. And she'd already talked about getting Dean a horse for his tenth birthday.

_Horses shouldn't be alone, Johnny_, she'd told him. _They don't accept humans into their herd, not like dogs. So we can't get just one._

John would have bought her the moon, if she'd wanted it. He wishes his boys could feel that complete surrender to another soul.

Of course, watching Dean with Sam… maybe Dean already does.


	21. say goodbye to yesterday

**Title**: say goodbye to yesterday  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title and lyrics from "The Cowboy Rides Away" by George Strait.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for the fact that Sam went to Stanford  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 680  
**Point of view**: third

* * *

_And my heart is sinking like the setting sun,_

_setting on the things I wish I'd done._

_It's time to say goodbye to yesterday._

_And this is where the cowboy rides away  
-  
_

He knew, deep down inside, from the first time Sammy crawled away from him, that one day Sam'd leave and not look back. And he's always wanted that for Sam, honestly he has, because Sam deserves more, he deserves happiness and white picket fences and to be the best damn lawyer in the world. He deserves everything the world has to offer. He deserves a nice, funny girl and a houseful of kids and a life that isn't full of danger and fury and blood and guns.

And honestly, Dean never expected to be the eccentric uncle always telling tall tales, filling his nieces and nephews with wonder and disbelief, sharing a beer with Sam after the kids went to sleep, telling his sister-in-law embarrassing stories from Sammy's childhood. He dreamed about it, of course, of taking breaks from the hunt now and again, spending a few days, maybe a week, at Sam's house, eating Sam's food, learning about the man Sam'd become.

But he knew, in his bones and his soul, that by the time Sam got around to having that white picket fence and that gorgeous, funny wife and those beautiful children with Mom's eyes and Dad's smile, by the time Sam reached his dreams—Dean'd be long dead. Ashes and ashes, dust to dust, taken down by some monster with nothing better to do.

So Dean drives Sam to the bus station, looks him straight in the eye, and tells him _goodbye, good luck, don't forget the salt, always look over your shoulder, keep the guns clean and the knives sharp, don't forget that exorcism, stay safe, Sammy, please stay safe, and you can always come home_.

And when Sam looks over his shoulder, Dean thinks back to his baby brother, just learning to crawl, crawling away from him and laughing, glancing back to smile at Dean, and Dean could read, plain as day in his eyes, _C'mon, follow me, it'll be fun._

Sam steps onto the bus and Dean closes his eyes. _Stay safe, Sammy. Please stay safe. _

Dean always figured he'd follow Sam anywhere, or Sam'd follow him. But now Sam's leaving, Sam's gone, and a part of Dean knows Sam won't be coming back. Another part of him wants to drag Sam back, to tie him up and keep him safe, and still another part… doesn't want Sam to come back, to be anywhere near Dean or Dad, because it's full of fire and danger and blood and death, what they do and who they are, and Dean can't escape that, it's written deep in his bones, an integral facet of his soul he'll never be able to leave behind.

So he watches Sammy's bus fade in the distance, and he closes his eyes, and he lowers his head to the steering wheel, and he remembers Sammy the infant, baby brother Sammy, the largest part of his life, bigger than the hunting and the pleasing Dad and the honoring Mom's memory and the getting vengeance for November—Sammy. Leaving.

Sammy, gone. Away. From the hunt and the danger and the blood and the guns and the destruction and the fire—but what about car wrecks and bus accidents, about tornadoes and heart attacks, and a billion normal ways people die everyday?

Dean squeezes his eyes tight and stays in that parking lot till long after the sun sets, a hole opening inside him, a pit he can't do a thing about because Sam is out of his eyesight and will be—forever, most likely, because Sam's leaving the hunt and Dean never can.

_Goodbye Sammy. Please stay safe. _

_Don't forget about what's in the dark. It'll never turn its back on you, no matter how much you ignore it. Keep the guns clean and don't forget to sharpen the knives. Remember your salt lines. _

_Don't forget me, Sammy. Attain your dreams, but don't forget me.  
_


	22. in a shining castle

**Title**: in a shining castle

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 175

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**

* * *

**

Sam used to demand stories, as a boy. Whenever they were heading somewhere new, curled up in the back with Dean, Sammy would whine and cajole until Dean gave in, which was never long at all.

Dean started with the traditional tales, always with a few modifications, but soon branched out into his own stories.

John was frequently impressed by his firstborn's brilliant and vibrant imagination.

Sammy's favorite, the one he requested most often, was about a panther prince named Lune, who hunted down an evil shadow called Diablo. John recognized it as one Mary used to tell. Over the course of the story, which evolved and mutated through the years, Lune met up with a female white tiger called Mara, and she helped him on his quest. There was eventually a happy ending, of course.

Dean told Sam stories up until the day Sam turned thirteen and decided he was too old for fairy tales.

John misses listening to Dean, but he never asks for his own stories. It just wouldn't be the same.


	23. Strawberries

**Title**: Strawberries

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 555

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: there's a reference to _The Crucible_ in here.

* * *

The first time Jessica spent the night, Sam made her breakfast in the morning. He wanted it to be a surprise, to be special, to show how much he cared—to show he might could love her, one day. 

He sliced a handful of strawberries and sugared them, then slipped two pieces of bread in the toaster. He got the bacon ready in the microwave and began scrambling some eggs, waiting until they were near-done before starting the bacon or toast.

When the microwave beeped and toast popped, Sam took the frying pan off the burner. He grabbed the jar of peanut butter and the honey bear, slathering both all over the bread.

Sam arranged the plate, with the toast on one side and the eggs on another, leaving the strawberries in their bowl. He plopped the bacon next to the eggs and got out a glass, filled it with milk and added chocolate syrup, stirring till it was fully mixed.

As he set the plate on the table, Jessica wandered out of the bedroom, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. Her hair was wild, she was yawning, and he'd never seen anything so gorgeous.

She canted her head. "Breakfast?"

He nodded, pulling out the chair. "For you."

She smiled at him, brilliant as the sun, and kissed his lips as she passed by, nibbling on the bottom one. "You're a marvel, Sam Winchester," she whispered into his mouth.

He didn't say_, That play doesn't end well_. Didn't want to jinx the moment. Just wrapped his arms around her and trailed kisses down her neck, nipping lightly at her shoulder.

He knew then he'd love this woman forever.

She sank into the chair and looked at the spread, reaching out to snag one of the pieces of toast. He walked around the table and watched her, just drinking in the details. She flicked her eyes over to him and smiled again, taking a big bite of the toast and draining half the glass of milk to wash it down.

"You know I'm allergic to strawberries, right?" she asked, sticking a forkful of egg in her mouth.

He gaped, embarrassment curling through him. Jessica met his gaze, face warm. "I didn't tell you, so I don't know how you could've."

"I am so sorry, Jess," he said, reaching out to pull the bowl away from her. "I'll get rid of these."

She held up a hand. "Don't. Go on, eat 'em. Don't let them go to waste, Sam."

Sam loved strawberries, but he couldn't risk it. He shoved them into the fridge and returned to the table where she'd eaten the bacon and most of the toast, leaving some eggs for him.

After they finished breakfast, Jessica pulled him into the shower with her and murmured a quiet, heartfelt _thank you_ in his ear. He washed her hair and she scrubbed his back, and he was happy, so happy—he wondered sadly if it could last.

Jessica had a class at ten, so finally she got dressed and kissed him goodbye, thanked him again, and said she'd be back for supper.

Sam smiled at her and shut the door, thinking maybe he'd finally found a home. He walked to the fridge and pulled out the strawberries, eating them slowly and savoring the taste.


	24. In From The Cold

**Title**: In From The Cold

**Disclaimer**: Sam and Jessica aren't mine.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: Jessica's parents; Jessica's grandparents; Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 2280

**Point of view**: third

* * *

"Kevin Moore," Heather shouted, brushing her long blond hair. "If you're not ready to go, I swear you won't get any cheesecake for six months!"

"Cheater!" he called back, trumping up the stairs. Heather smirked into the mirror, meeting his eyes. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. "You look lovely, sweetie," he said. He didn't look so bad himself, wearing a new shirt—dark blue, it brought out his eyes. Clung to his still-lean frame, too.

And the jeans didn't help things, either. He was in damn-fine shape for a man that just turned fifty-five. Still had all his hair, for Heaven's sake! Turning gray, but not too much. Made him look distinguished.

"Where's Nate?" Heather asked, standing and putting down the brush, flinging her hair out of her face.

"Just called; he'll be here in five minutes." Kevin cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her; she kissed back for a moment before putting a hand to his chest and lightly shoving.

"Momma and Daddy?"

Kevin sighed and pressed his face against the skin of her shoulder. "You really think I'd forget your parents, Heather?" he scoffed and kissed her. "They're here; the van's more'n big enough."

"I just want everythin' perfect, Kev—our baby girl's comin' home." Heather turned her face up to him and opened her forest-green eyes wide. She didn't pout; that would be unbecoming of a fifty-two year old woman. But close enough to it for government work.

"I know she is," Kevin replied, kissing her lips once more before taking her hand. "And she's bringin' some boy with her."

-

The drive to the airport was quiet. Heather sat on the middle seat with Daddy; Nate was shoved to the back.

First time Jessica was coming home since a month after going to Stanford, the year before. Heather hadn't wanted her only daughter going all the way across the country, leaving behind everyone and everything she knew—but Jess was adamant. Greg had wanted to go to Stanford, Jessica told her, eyes solemn, voice breaking. So, that's where Jessica would go.

Greg… it still hurt Heather to think about her firstborn, to remember how completely she failed him. She had that letter he'd written tucked away in her room; never had told Jess or Nate about it. Never will.

Greg would be twenty-six now.

Heather sniffed and tried to covertly wipe at her eyes, but Daddy looked over and caught her gaze. He reached out to wrap an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. "'s'alright, baby girl," Daddy whispered into her hair and she felt like a child again, wanting Daddy to make everything better. "Jessie's comin' home. Just hold tight to that."

"I know," Heather whispered and smiled up at Daddy. "But I miss Greg."

Momma twisted shotgun to look back and meet Heather's gaze. "We all do, baby girl," Momma said. "But just remember—he's beyond pain, now."

Heather never could forget that. She still saw him—bloody, pale, cold, unmoving—in her nightmares.

Daddy gripped her hand hard, kissed her palm. "Your daughter's comin' home, baby," he murmured. "Just think'a that."

-

The plane was late. An hour spent pacing around the airport, thinking of all the things that could go wrong, remembering Jessica in the days and months after Greg's death, how closed off and hollow Jess'd been. Only Nate, sweet three-year-old Nate, could break down Jessica's walls.

Momma and Daddy sat next to each other in the uncomfortable chairs, heads bent close together, discussing some movie they'd been to see.

Kevin watched her, a small smile quirking his lips. Nate sat next to his father, bending his ear about some novel he'd read because Jess'd mailed it to him.

But Heather just paced around, anxious and annoyed, praying that her daughter's plane landed safely because she couldn't lose another child. She just couldn't.

"It'll be fine, Hettie," Kevin said, coming up behind her and kissing her neck. She leaned back against him, seeking comfort. "You'll see, love." She'd always loved standing in his embrace. His size—six three and shockingly broad—was what had first drawn her gaze, all those years ago. She was no shrimp herself, at five ten, and loved having to look up at him.

"I hope so, Kev," she replied, turning to face him. She smiled and linked her arms around his neck, stretching up for a kiss.

"Mom!" Nate shouted, running past her. "Dad, they're here!"

Heather spun around and darted after her son, Kevin and her parents just behind her. "Do we have the wrong gate?" she heard Daddy ask, but she didn't look back. She could see her daughter now, her gloriously beautiful daughter, leading some boy—wow, _tall_—by the hand.

"Jessie!" Nate called, lunging forward to wrap himself around his sister, squeezing her tight. "You're back!"

Jess grinned brightly and hugged her brother, laughing. "Damn, Natey, you get taller?"

Nate laughed, too, looking happier than Heather had seen him since Jessica flew him back home.

The boy—_what's_ _his name? Sam?—_hung back, dark green eyes nervous. Like a skittish colt, Heather thought. She quickly ran through what all she knew about this Sam as Jessica pulled away from Nate and hugged her: pre-law, tall, beautiful eyes, sweet, affectionate, protective.

"Momma," Jess whispered in her ear. "I missed you so much."

"Oh, baby girl," Heather whispered back, "I'm so glad you're home."

Jessica fisted her hands in Heather's shirt and sniffed, then pulled back. She swiftly and firmly embraced the others, then returned to stand beside Sam, taking his hand.

"Everyone," she said, "this is my boyfriend, Sam Winchester." She smiled up at him. "Sam, these are my parents, Heather and Kevin Moore, my brother Nathan, and my grandparents, Katerina and Victor."

Sam peered at them through his bangs, a shy smile at the corners of his lips. "It's wonderful to finally meet all'a ya'll," he said, voice soft.

Daddy stepped forward first, appearing small compared to Sam, even though he was over six foot. Sam held out a hand, but Daddy bypassed it and pulled him into a huge hug.

Sam seemed shocked and didn't react for a moment before hesitantly clasping his arms around Daddy.

"Good to meet you, too, son," Daddy told him, stepping back. "Welcome."

Sam's smile blossomed and Heather had to catch her breath. Such a beautiful smile—made her think of kittens and puppies and a cloudless, never-ending sky.

"Well," Momma announced, rubbing her hands together. "Let's get the luggage and back to the house—I have cheesecake in the oven."

Kevin's face lit up. "Oh, Kat—chocolate?"

Momma laughed and Jess buried her face in Sam's chest, blushing beet-red. Heather studied him as Momma said, "With chocolate chips." He looked bemused and shell-shocked, unsure of what to do or say. According to Jess, he hadn't had much of a childhood, though she didn't know much. She had told Heather about his scars, though. Quite a collection, a patchwork all over his body.

Heather didn't like thinking about her baby girl and some boy in bed, but she was by no means a prude. At least Jessica was being open this time.

Heather still hated that boy Bobby, who didn't care enough about Jess to make her first time pleasurable. Good thing he'd gone to school in Florida.

Momma led the way to luggage-claim and Heather linked her hand with Jessica's, asking about Stanford; Jess started with the teachers and went from there. Nate was on Jessica's other side, Kev walking with Momma, and Daddy bringing up the rear with Sam.

-

Once they were back at the van, Heather realized that seating would be a problem. Kevin would drive; he trusted no one with his baby, even Heather. Momma got shotgun, always, no matter what vehicle she was in. Sitting in the back made her vomit, had since she was a girl. Heather, Nate, and Daddy each wanted to sit by Jess, though that left Sam reeling, since she was the only one he knew.

Daddy solved the problem for her. "You kids to the back," he told all three of them.

Jess grinned and shoved at Nate to go first, then crawled in after him, smiling at Sam. He slid in, trying to bend his twelve-foot legs in some comfortable way. Heather winced just watching, but he finally settled.

She slipped into the middle seat, scooting all the way over, and Daddy swung himself in, shutting the door. Kevin gunned the engine and Momma fussed at him; Nate and Jess were whispering in the backseat. The family felt complete again and Heather sank back against the seat, at peace.

-

Once they reached the house, Momma rushed in like lightning. Kal and Tigre, the wolfhounds, were howling in the yard, demanding to meet this new person; Nate galloped over to the fence and opened it, letting them out. Sam froze, eyes on the large dogs, but Jess stood beside him, holding his hand, and said, "_Down_."

Both dogs dropped immediately and Jess, still gripping Sam, knelt, running her other hand along Kal's back, then Tigre's. "C'mon, Sam," she asked, "let 'em get your scent."

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and knelt beside her. Daddy and Kevin headed inside but Heather and Nate stayed with them until Jessica decided she'd subjected Sam to enough. "Inside," Nate called to the 'hounds and they both bounded for the door.

Jessica gave Sam a tour of the house, Nate following them, while Heather made her way to the kitchen. "Get of Momma's hair," she told Kevin, smacking him the arm. "How can she be expected to get anything done with you hanging around?"

Kevin attempted puppy-eyes that hadn't worked in years and Heather snickered. "Get out of the kitchen unless you wanna be useful." He flounced out, fake-glaring over his shoulder.

Heather shared a glance with Momma then followed him, heading up stairs. She tracked the kids down to Jessica's room, where Nate was showing Sam some embarrassing pictures and Jess had her head buried her arms.

"This is when she was in the eighth-grade talent show," Nate said as she entered the room. "She did some ballerina moves—even though she'd never been a ballerina—and gave herself whiplash."

"Sam," Heather called and his head shot up.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked, straightening.

"What d'ya want for dinner?" She was used to tall men—a husband at six three and a son taller still—but Sam? He was _tall_.

"Anything, ma'am," he answered, ducking his head.

"Jess told me you're a good cook," she said, taking a chance. "That true?"

He looked at her through his bangs. "I suppose so, ma'am."

Heather hadn't been around such a polite boy in years, not since grade-school and that marine's son spent a month with them.

Jessica scoffed. "Don't listen to him, Mom. He's as good as Grandmomma."

Sam blushed. Nate went to say something, but a scathing look from Heather hushed him right up.

"You wanna help me in the kitchen?" Heather offered with a gentle smile.

Sam lowered his head again. "I'm sure I'd just be in the way, ma'am."

She flicked a glance at Jess, who nodded. Heather stepped forward and lightly gripped his elbow. "I'm sure you won't be, Sam. C'mon—I can tell you what all of her favorite meals are."

He shot Jess a quick look and she smiled again, so Sam allowed Heather to pull him to the kitchen. As they entered, Momma gave him a brilliant grin. "I was just about to put this in the fridge," she said, placing some foil over the cheesecake. "Then I'll be outta your way."

Heather watched in bemusement as Sam watched Momma with an intent gaze, following her across the kitchen with his eyes. Momma looked like she always had—tiny little thing, about five three, her dark brown hair long lightened to gray, eyes hazel and deep. She was wearing a sweat suit, summer-sky blue, and she was beautiful—not that Heather was biased, or anything.

Momma bustled out of the kitchen, humming some old song. Jasper—Kevin's mutt—bounded up to her, demanding attention. Heather turned to Sam, who was looking at his feet, shoulders hunched up, trying to appear smaller. "Now, Sam," she said sidling past him to the counter and sitting on a stool, "what do you know how to cook?"

He listed off things that ranged from jambalaya to etouffee to chowder to chimichangas, soups and salads, sandwiches, Chicken Marsala—she cut him off with, "Who taught you?"

He hadn't looked up from his feet. "My brother."

She studied him for a moment: tall, of course, topping six five easily. Long, dark brown hair bordering on black that flopped adorably into his eyes. Strong features, high cheekbones. Tan. And those glinting green eyes that Jessica had waxed poetic about on the phone. "How'd you meet my daughter?" she asked without meaning to.

He raised his head, meeting her gaze. "I was waiting in line at the cafeteria," he said after a moment. "She was behind me and started a conversation about some sports star—a baseball player." He shrugged, smiling. "She made me laugh."

Heather smiled. She seemed to be doing that a lot around this boy. "She loves oven-fried chicken," Heather told him, hopping off the stool. "So let's get to it."

She liked this boy, with his shy smile and hesitant nature. She could even grow to love him one day, and showing him around her kitchen, she hoped he'd stay for a long, long time.


	25. How warm it was

**Title**: How warm it was

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Eavan Boland.

**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot

**Pairings**: Sam/Jessica

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 375

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Sam left, Jessica was two weeks late. After she went back to sleep that night, she dreamed of reading _Shane_ to a little boy with Sam's eyes. He couldn't be more than eight and he was curled up in her arms, nestled against her chest.

It was a good dream, one of the best she ever had.

She woke on Saturday to an empty apartment and missed Sam so fiercely it ached.

But he'd be back. He said he would, and Sam never made a promise he didn't keep. She just had to be patient and wait.

-

She bought a test Saturday afternoon, when she made the weekly grocery run. It was a lonely chore that day—usually Sam went with her. She also picked up the stuff to make cookies. He was better baker by far, but it'd be fun. It'd keep her busy, too busy to wonder and worry.

-

Jessica had an exam on Monday. She couldn't focus enough to study, damn that Dean Winchester. What right did he have to bust back into Sam's life?

The caring, compassionate part of her whispered, _Nate_. _Greg._ She hushed it up.

Saturday, Jessica crawled into bed at nine and pulled Sam's pillow to her, buried her face in it. She cried herself to sleep.

-

She had the dream again, reading Sam's favorite book to their son. She kissed his hair and heard Sam rattling around the kitchen.

"She hungry?" Jessica called, tickling their boy.

"I got it, Jess," Sam responded.

"Mama!" the little boy said, bouncing in her lap. "Read! 's'best part!"

She laughed and complied.

-

Sunday evening, Jessica finally tried the test.

Before she learned the results, though, the shadow-man with golden eyes came for her.

_Samuel Winchester—Mary's son—_the shadow-man said, _will never have children_. It touched her face. _You remind me so much of Mary. You have her fire_.

Jessica tried jerking away and it smiled. _Goodbye, Jessica Lee Moore. Know that your death made a difference._

She didn't ask, _A difference in what?_ though she wanted to.

-

Jessica wished she knew her babies' names. Wished Sam could explain what the shadow-man meant.

But she died with one last look at Sam and—

_ Guess Nate'll be an only child now. _


	26. truest friend

**Title**: truest friend  
**Disclaimer**: only Jessica, Sam, and Dean aren't mine.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for pilot  
**Pairings**: none  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 255  
**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Greg gave her the panther for her second birthday. She named it "Sade" and decided it was female. Later, Jessica learned that he picked her out himself. She was big and soft, with luxurious black fur. Jessica spent ten years of her life curling up with her panther every night, whispering secrets and weaving stories.

Greg died when she was seven, and Jessica clutched Sade close for weeks, only parting to let Mama bathe her. Tears soaked into Sade's fur, long made dull by play and time. Every time Jessica looked at her panther, she saw Greg—but she couldn't bear to let her go.

When she was twelve, she decided she was too old for Sade and put the panther on her shelf.

She was seventeen and it was the tenth anniversary of Greg's death, so she pulled Sade down from the shelf and curled up around her oldest, truest friend.

She was eighteen and driving to Stanford when she realized Sade was at home. So Jessica called Mama with her cellphone and Mama shipped Sade to the dorms.

Sade was the first person Jessica told about her crush on that tall boy with glinting green eyes and soft, floppy hair. She whispered it to Sade even before Benny learned.

And Sade was the one Jessica clung to the night Sam left with his gorgeous, haunted brother.

She held Sade and thought of Greg.

She wasn't holding Sade when she died, though. She wasn't holding anything except regret that now Nate would be alone.


	27. to dream no dreams

**Title**: to dream no dreams

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Faith"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: for _stealthyone_, to the prompt of "Lull."

* * *

He learns later that he died twice that night: first in the basement because of his own stupidity, then again in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

At first, he wishes Sam had just let him stay dead.

-

Dean listens to the doctor as he talks about reasonable expectations and unsound hopes. Dean's got no delusions, though; his time's up. He knows Sam won't be as accepting, though.

He wishes he could make things easier for Sammy. He wishes Dad were here.

Come to think of it, Dean wishes a lot of things.

-

He turns on the TV, trying to drown out the empty echo of his heart. He never expected to live that long, though he wish—regrets that it will be so lingering.

But despite the deep ache and the endless cold, Dean feels relief. He's just so tired… he can't wait to sleep.

_But Sammy_… the thought fades as he slips under, and a part of him hopes he'll never wake.


	28. Revenant

**Title**: Revenant

**Disclaimer**: Gordon isn't mine. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Hunted"

**Pairings**: nada

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 380

**Point of view**: third

* * *

She's a frail thing, the girl that used to go by Annette. Tiny, fragile, so easily shattered in both mind and body. Hardly a challenge. 

She hasn't been Annette since that hurricane swept through, tearing down the city around her. Annette nearly drowned in those waters, from the sky and the Pontchartrain, but It, the shadow, was inhaled through her nose and took over, swam until Annette thought her arms would fall off, swam until she was pulled into a rescue-boat and gasped for air.

Annette only exists in a corner of her mind now, taken over by It, the shadow. Annette doesn't really recall anything from before that hurricane, but what she _does_ remember… Maria begged her to escape with her and the boys, merely hours before landfall—and Annette had been too scared to go. All she'd ever known was the city, ancient and proud New Orleans.

From the recesses of her mind, Annette knows she should have gone.

-

She exists like that, merely a memory inside her own head, merely a remembrance in her limbs and blood. Annette fades more by the day, floating and dreaming, asleep even as her body moves, dances, lets men and women alike fuck her.

And It, the shadow, never speaks to her, never taunts her, never calls her by name. She doesn't know what's going on, but lost in the dark abyss, she doesn't care.

-

Until the day that she's thrust to the forefront as the large black man chants in a language she doesn't know, pours burning liquid on her pale skin, and—and—_laughs_ as she whimpers.

She begs with a voice she hasn't used in longer than she remembers, pleads, cries. But he just continues chanting, continues sprinkling her with that acid, and then It takes back over, screaming nonsense.

But then the man pauses, lowers his hand. "What was that?" he demands, crouching down beside her, dark eyes cold.

It uses her body to cower back, to whimper. The man leans forward and Annette feels satisfaction drifting from the shadow. She's shoved back in the darkness, into the fantasies and smoke, but she distantly hears her own voice whisper, "Samuel Winchester…"

-

She drifts and then she falls and then she rises—and then there is no more—


	29. unforgivingly what you are

**Title**: unforgivingly what you are

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything aired

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1470

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: caffienekitty, for her birthday

**Notes**: everyone should go see _Horton Hears a Who_! It's adorable.

**Prompt**: (Gen) Season 3 post 3.12 Dean (fated, not dark, not empowered), approaching his crossroads due date, fighting to save a rapidly darkening (empowered, but not overtly so yet) Sam from himself, stuck alone in some dire, hopeless-seeming situation, suddenly remembers writing his own epitaph in high school.

* * *

It's his last big hurrah, his final hunt. Sam's on the other side of the forest; they're pretty sure it's a black dog.

Dean's worried about his brother. Sometimes, he looks at Sam and doesn't see Sammy, skinned knees and puppy eyes. Sometimes, he looks and sees a cold-stone killer, Azazel's favorite.

He's never scared easily, but seeing a stranger in his baby brother's eyes terrifies him. He's already Christoed Sam twice.

He doesn't want to go. Less than a week left and Sam won't have anyone to guard his back, to make stupid jokes, to switch out his toothpaste and play music he hates too loud. There won't be anyone to keep him human. There won't be anyone to remind him that he's _Sammy_, no matter what else he becomes.

Dean doesn't want to go. Doesn't want to leave Sam all alone. But he made a deal: his soul for Sam's life. He's gotta say, he sure got the better end of the bargain. Sam's worth a hundred of him. Maybe even a thousand.

His last big hurrah. They finish this hunt, and then the Grand Canyon—and he's gone. Eternal hellfire, brimstone, wailing and gnashing of teeth—Sammy alone with some demon-chick. And no one to call him _Sammy_ anymore.

Less than a week. A demon war on the horizon, hunters he can't trust in the distance, and—

Damn. Dean doesn't want to go. He's only ever trusted himself and Dad at Sammy's back.

Sam yells in the distance. Dean sprints that direction.

o0o

The black dog dealt with, Sam showers and falls into bed. Dean can't sleep; he lies awake and listens to Sam breathe. It's the most soothing sound in the world. He remembers being little, curling up around Sammy, only able to rest if Sam's warm baby-breath was on his cheek.

Soon he'll be gone. No more Sam, no more Sammy. Only Hell. Only Hell and everything he's ever done wrong, every mistake he's ever made.

When he leaves, he's almost sure Sammy will be gone forever, too. Will become what Azazel wanted, what Ruby is still pushing him towards.

Well, that's something he can fix. Tomorrow, he'll summon Ruby and put a Colt-bullet between her eyes. One of the last things he'll be able to do to protect Sammy.

"Quit thinkn' so hard, Dean," Sam sleepily murmurs.

"Sleep, Sammy," he responds. "Don't worry 'bout me."

"'kay."

o0o

"Killing me won't stop it," Ruby says.

He shoots her anyway.

o0o

Dean drives to the Grand Canyon, "Back in Black" playing on repeat. He and Sam both sing along.

In less than a week, only four days and nights, he won't have this anymore. He'll leave behind too many weapons, too much regret, an Impala, and a baby brother destined to command a demon army.

He pulls off the road, turns down the music, and sighs. "Tell me you won't do anything stupid," he says.

Sam's face turns stubborn.

"Promise me, Sammy," Dean says, and knows he's begging. "You've done your best, but there's nothing. So after I'm gone…" He looks Sam in the eyes. "Let me go."

Sam looks away. Stays silent.

"Promise me, Sammy. _Please_." His voice trembles. He has to know Sam won't do anything to damage his own soul.

"I can't, Dean," Sam whispers. "I won't leave you in Hell. You deserve better. And I'll get you out of there, no matter what it takes."

Dean slams his hand on the dashboard; Sam doesn't react at all.

"Don't! it's too dangerous. I chose this, knowing full well how it'd end, Sam." He wants to shake Sam until he understands. "_Let me go_. I can't do this if I have to worry about you."

Sam snarls, "Well, too damn bad."

"Sammy…"

"_No_, Dean." He twists in his seat to full-on glare. "I am not leaving you in Hell. No fucking way."

Dean stares at him. "Please."

But it's Sam's stubborn face looking at him, that set in Sam's shoulders he's never been able to beat.

"Sammy," he tries once more. "Just… don't make any deals. With anything." A moment of silence. Softly, "Please."

Finally, Sam's jaw unclenches. "Okay," he says. "I promise I won't make any deals."

Dean turns the music back up, but neither of them sing.

o0o

Ever since Broward County, Dean can't sneak out of motel rooms without waking Sam up. So when he decides to watch sunrise over the Canyon, Sam comes with him.

It's beautiful, the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. Almost makes him believe in God.

"Dean Winchester!" a voice exclaims.

Both of them whirl around, Sam sliding in front of Dean. Dean rolls his eyes, biting in a noise of disgust. He goes around Sam, looking for the speaker.

The man is old and familiar. He's grinning, an old woman at his side. "It _is_ you," he says.

"Um… yeah, it's me," he replies, shooting a glance at Sam. "I'm sorry, but I don't—"

"James Friedman," he introduces himself.

"Senior English." Recognition hits Dean. "Man, you were the best teacher ever, you know that?" Dean grins, holding out a hand.

Mr. Friedman shakes, then puts his arm around the woman. "My wife, Victoria."

Dean cocks his head at Sam. "My brother, Sam."

Sam gives a small, fake smile. He doesn't offer a hand.

"So, how've you been?" Mr. Friedman asks.

Dean's mind goes blank, but after a moment, his bullshit kicks in.

o0o

Later, when he's lying in bed listening to Sam lie awake, Dean remembers his senior year of highschool. It was his favorite year of schooling ever.

He should really call up Maria's brothers, make sure they're okay. Maybe if he asks Sam to watch out for them, it'll keep him safe.

Yeah, that's a good idea. Give him something to do besides mourn, at least.

He isn't even thinking about it, but one of his final assignments in Mr. Friedman's class comes back, just popping into his head: his epitaph. It had been his least favorite that year, struck him as creepy and morbid. He actually hadn't written anything until the morning it was due, was gonna claim immortality.

But as he'd watched Sam cross the parking lot, it came to him: _I lived for you and have now died for you. I pray you rest gently and wait long to join me._

Dean bites his lip, holding in a desperate laugh. Maybe Sam's not the only one who can see the future.

o0o

The last day dawns beautiful. Sam can't look at Dean without tearing up. Dean doesn't want to look away.

Sam's the best thing he's ever done. The best thing in the whole world. Dean doesn't want to leave him. Doesn't want to go to Hell.

"I'm not sorry, Sam," he says. "remember that, okay? I don't regret it."

Sam ducks his head. "I know," he whispers, voice breaking.

It's his last chance to say anything. "I lived for you, Sammy," he starts, looking out over the Canyon. "My whole life, from the moment you were born. So, it just makes sense, you know?"

"Don't," Sam tells him. Sam closes his eyes, tears spilling over, pouring down his face. "Please, Dean. Just don't."

But Dean can't stop. "Don't beat yourself up, Sam, not over this. I made my decision. You…" He licks his lips, patting the sun-warmed hood beneath him. "You're better than me, Sam. You can make the world a better place. So don't waste your life trying to find me, save me."

Sam sobs, burying his face in his hands, doubling over.

Dean reaches out, cups his hand around Sam's jaw, pulls him up and over, till they're face-to-face.

"I did it for you, Sammy. And I won't ask your forgiveness." He keeps his voice soft. Now that the time is here, he's calm. He's lived his life for Sam. It's only right he dies for Sammy, too. "Just…" He lowers his hand and Sam grabs him, pulling him for the most desperate hug of his life, worse even than the one in Broward County. "Don't hate me, Sammy," he whispers into Sam's shoulder. "Don't hate me."

The sun sets. Dean hears howling. Sam still hasn't let him go, sobbing into his neck.

_I lived for you_

"Don't go," Sam gasps. "We can still beat this."

_and have now died for you._

"No," Dean says. "We can't."

_I pray you rest gently_

Sam's grip is bruising, his chest heaving. "I won't let you go."

"Don't come for me." Dean slowly pulls back, hands fisted in Sam's jacket. "Live your life, Sammy. Let me go."

Sam nods. The sunlight is fully gone, a cold wind blowing.

The hounds are growling. Dean pushes off his Impala and doesn't look back.

He runs for the edge and jumps.

_and never join me._


End file.
